The Unravelled Seam
by joe6991
Summary: In the summer before his Sixth Year, Professor Dumbledore invites Harry to Hogwarts to undertake advanced study with visiting academics from all over the world. He meets Mathias Hoovian, a Durmstrang Professor who studies demonology, who offers Harry an apprenticeship to learn about the Seam-the barrier between life and death, and the place where a horcrux draws its strength...
1. Bloodshot

**A/N:** Well, here we go again...

* * *

**The Unravelled Seam**

_Sometimes there is absolutely no difference at all  
between salvation and damnation._

Stephen King

**Chapter One – Bloodshot**

Harry's trunk landed with a _thunk _against the dusty white gravel covering the main thoroughfare up to the castle. The vine-girdled wrought iron gates protecting Hogwarts stood ajar, welcoming, as beams of pleasant summer sun broke through the leafy green canopy of the less menacing Forbidden Forest trees bordering the road down to Hogsmeade.

Harry Potter himself appeared alongside the trunk, took a deep breath, swore he could smell the magic on the air, and drew his wand. With a practiced flick, he levitated his trunk to follow steadily behind him as he crossed the threshold of the castle grounds—as he returned home. Already the cold, creeping dementor-fog and the dreary, soot-strangled streets of Surrey felt as far behind mentally as they were physically. A wicked grin stole across his face.

Only two weeks spent sullen and sulking at the Dursleys in the summer before his sixth year—and one week of that spent in anticipation of returning earlier to Hogwarts today, with the summer barely begun. Harry flicked the coin-sized silver portkey bearing the Gryffindor crest into the air, caught it as deftly as any golden snitch, and let it fall into the pocket of his jacket.

He marched up to Hogwarts taller with every step, the woes and worries of the wider world beyond the castle gates, for the moment, a lighter burden.

* * *

"Potter?" Draco Malfoy scoffed, as Harry strolled into the opulent Governors Chamber just after sunset. Malfoy rolled his eyes. "They just let anyone dressed in Muggle rags into the advanced tutelage now? My father—"

"—is busy licking Voldemort's boots, Malfoy," Harry said, eliciting a steady echo of gasps from the other students in the room. "Good evening to everyone but Malfoy."

The Governors Chamber, located as an annex to the Hogwarts Library, was one of those rooms Harry had known existed but never had much cause to visit during the last five years at Hogwarts. A long, dark wood table stretched the length of the room, standing on plush purple and green carpet. The table was polished to a mirror sheen and weighted with fine silverware and empty serving dishes. Long silver drapes framed broad stained-glass windows along the eastern wall, overlooking the lake. Each window depicted one of the Founders.

Harry took a seat opposite Malfoy at the table, next to Justin Finch-Fletchley, placing the visage of Godric Gryffindor at his back, over his shoulder.

Around the table, which sat about fifteen, most of the chairs were occupied. Malfoy, of course, glaring at Harry before dismissing him for whatever was written on the parchment before him. Justin to his left, and next to him sat Katie Bell, then Theodore Nott. Around the head of the table was Colin Creevey, a fourth-year Gryffindor girl with black hair who Harry couldn't name, and along the further edge sat Cho Chang and Marcus Belby. Cho smiled and waved at him.

Skipping past Malfoy again, there was an empty seat, and then two kids who Harry thought may have been third years – a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin, though their names escaped him. Two final Ravenclaws sat at the far end of the table, Terry Boot and Padma Patil. Harry made a quick count – thirteen including himself, heavy on the Ravenlaws, with two empty seats.

"Nice to see you here, Harry," Justin said. "Any thoughts as to what you'll be studying?"

Harry wasn't the last to arrive, however, as the doors swung open and Daphne Greengrass, wearing blue robes that complemented her silver-blonde hair, swept into the room and cast a quick glance at them all. She nodded to Malfoy, the barest incline of her head, and let her mask slip just a moment when she regarded Harry. The others she ignored entirely and took a seat at the far end of the table, aloof and alone.

After Daphne, Harry grinned as Hermione entered the room, clutching a familiar stack of books to her breast. She glanced shyly around the room, eyes widening when she spotted Harry, then grinned to match his own.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, as Malfoy sighed loud enough to be heard. Hermione ignored him. "I'm surprised to see—that is, I'm glad you're here!"

With all the other seats taken, Hermione had to sit three down from Harry, but he offered her a solid thumbs-up as the grandfather clock nestled between bookshelves burdened with dusty tomes struck ten o'clock. The clock's pendulum drifting back and forth, Professor Dumbledore entered the Governors' Chamber. He wore a pair of colourful robes, hidden mostly by his beard, and looked every inch the headmaster of the most prestigious magical school in the nation—save for a strange silver glove he wore over his right hand, which to Harry seemed out of place.

"Good evening, students, good evening," Dumbledore said, stepping up to the table. He remained standing between Malfoy and Katie and gestured to them all. "And welcome to the advanced curriculum offered by the Hogwarts Professorial Exchange Program. The summer promises to be most educational, as we welcome professors from institutions such as Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, Castelobruxo, and the Durmstrang Institute to the castle."

Malfoy nodded to himself and sat a little taller at the mention of Durmstrang.

Dumbledore beamed at them all. "You students here tonight represent the best that Hogwarts has to offer, having achieved the highest academic standings possible in your various studies throughout the school year."

Harry tried not to squirm in his seat—he had achieved no such thing. Hermione being surprised to see him suddenly made a lot more sense. But during Professor Dumbledore's visit to Privet Drive two weeks ago he hadn't mentioned good grades as a summer school requirement, nor had he been wearing the odd silver glove. A younger Harry might not have questioned the omission, but here Harry had suspicions about the headmaster's motivations.

He kept his mouth shut for now.

"We have arranged a small function in the Scamander Hall next door, where you will have an opportunity to meet the visiting academics, learn about their areas of study, and—should you wish—apply for apprenticeship under their tutelage this summer. Some of my colleagues only accept one or two apprentices, while others may welcome you all." Dumbledore placed his silver-gloved right hand over his left. "I trust you with the reputation of our fine school, ladies and gentlemen. I am certain you will serve Hogwarts well."

* * *

The Scamander Hall was resplendent with glowing chandeliers, each crystal pendant making up the fall reflecting the orange torches burning on the stone walls in a cascade of fire. A long bar stretched against the far wall, and half a dozen tall tables were burdened with trays of canapes, finger foods, and floating candles.

Mingling among the tables were a dozen faces Harry didn't recognise, along with many familiar faces he did—Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, Charity Burbage the Professor of Muggle Studies, along with Professors Sprout and Madam Pomfrey. The Astronomy Professor chatted, drink in hand, with the Arithmancy teacher Professor Vector, and Snape lurked in a corner cradling a goblet of something that rose with a light green smoke. Everyone in the room wore robes of a more casual, if not stylish cut, which Harry found odd on his teachers.

All in all, the party seemed very adult to Harry.

"You never mentioned you were coming here over the summer in your last owl," Hermione _tsk_ed, giving him a crushing hug.

"Well neither did you," Harry countered, and kissed her cheek. "Anything to get away from the Dursleys, you know. And the way Dumbledore described it I figured it would just be me and one or two other's. This is a lot more impressive—did you know they ran this in the summers?"

Hermione nodded. "Not every year, apparently, and not for a few years—I think the last time it was offered was in our second year. Oh, I'm excited, Harry. Think of all the advanced knowledge and magic in this room! Look over there, at the bar, that's Lucas Faraday—Beauxbatons' Spellcrafter! And I think I saw Fernanda Oliveira who knows more about alchemy than just about anyone."

Harry let Hermione point and exclaim as the Hogwarts Professors began making introductions between the visiting academics and the students. Soft cassical music was piped in from somewhere—Harry suspected a strange device at the far end of the bar, all chimes and golden pipes—and he helped himself to a goblet of juice and set about enjoying the party. The night wore on, and he was swiftly separated from Hermione and taken through a whirlwind of names, faces, and handshakes.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said just after eleven. "Please allow me to introduce Professor Hoovian, who joins us from the Durmstrang Institute. Mathias, this is Harry Potter."

Hoovian was a tall man, dressed in the finest suit Harry had ever seen—though he was no real judge of such things. He wore the suit like a second skin, and Harry was reminded of muggle movie stars he had seen walking red carpets on the rare occasions the Dursleys let him watch television with them in the evenings. Hoovian seemed young for a professor, in his thirties if Harry had to guess, and his sharp blue eyes were bloodshot above cheeks covered in a rough, black stubble.

"The boy who keeps on living, yes." Hoovian said, though didn't offer his hand for Harry to shake. "If even half the stories are true, Professor Dumbledore has been letting you get into all sorts of mischief within—and without—these halls."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Harry has a knack for tackling some of our more… shall we say 'unexpected events', Harry?"

"The basilisk was pretty unexpected, yeah," Harry agreed.

Hoovian grunted a laugh.

"What do you teach, Professor?" Harry asked.

"I helm the Durmstrang Institute's Demonology College," Hoovian said, as if it were the most normal thing to helm in the world.

"Demon…ology." Harry paused. "Huh."

Hoovian grinned, his smile full of dazzling white teeth in neat, perfect rows. "Soul-splitting good fun, I can tell you. Now you tell me, Potter, have you ever heard of the Seam?"

"The seams on my robes are threaded after the patterns of the lovely purple and blue butterflies we get in the spring," Dumbledore said, offering his cuffs for inspection. "Harry, will you refresh Professor Hoovian's drink—and fetch me a tipple of something amber and aged? Gareth at the bar will know which one. Thank you."

Harry knew a dismissal when he heard one, so more bemused than anything he went and collected the drinks.

The night wore on, and just after midnight wound to a close.

Harry and Hermione spent an hour chatting in front of the fire in Gryffindor Tower—tomorrow they would be given private rooms closer to the staff wing, so they could assist with their apprenticeships, once they knew who had expressed an interest in them—before calling it a night.

* * *

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	2. The Dementor's Heart

**Chapter Two – The Dementor's Heart**

The window in Harry's private suite overlooked the green fields rolling toward the Forbidden Forest, where a familiar and comforting curl of smoke rose from the chimney of Hagrid's cabin, and spanned the eastern expanse of the lake. The room was certainly a step-up on the dormitories he'd shared in Gryffindor Tower for the last five years.

Harry placed his trunk at the foot of the queen-sized bed, sunk back into the firm mattress and goose-feather blankets, and sighed. His room was ideal—like something at a fancy hotel—complete with an en suite bathroom that held a spa bath a person could almost do laps in.

He stood and stretched his arms over his head. On the fine mahogany desk in front of the window with the impressive view, he spied a scroll of parchment. He broke the wax seal bearing the Hogwarts crest:

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Welcome to the Hogwarts Summer Apprenticeship Program. I hope you enjoyed meeting our visiting academics at the welcome event yesterday evening. _

_Please note the following academics have expressed an interest in providing you with a four-week intense-learning apprenticeship, with the option to extend your studies during the regular school year via owl correspondence and site visits. You'll find appointment times and room numbers have been assigned today for your convenience:_

_Professor of Alchemy Fernanda Oliveira (Castelobruxo)  
09:30am, Charms Room 7_

_Master Spellcrafter Lucas Faraday (Beauxbatons)_

_10:30am, Charms Room 4_

_Defence Instructor Sara Quinn (Ilvermorny)_

_11:30am, Charms Room 2_

_Professor of Demonology Mathias Hoovian (Durmstrang Institute)  
Midnight, Astronomy Tower - Western Viewing Balcony_

_If you could please endeavour to arrive five minutes prior to each appointment, and note that a maximum of three (3) apprenticeships may be accepted by the student._

_Warm regards,_

_Charity Burbage  
Hogwarts Professor of Muggle Studies_

Harry considered the parchment, read it again—noting the late hour Professor Hoovian wanted to see him—and nodded once. He had found the visiting Durmstrang man a touch odd last night, and couldn't help but wonder if he was on the level given the headmaster at that school was a former (or maybe not so former) Death Eater.

"Hmm," Harry said and furled the parchment.

As the hour crept toward midnight, so did Harry up the winding, narrow stairs of the Astronomy Tower. An old hand at moving without being seen—with or without his invisibility cloak—Harry's sneakers made no sound on the well-worn stairs. Moonlight through the tall arched windows along the curve of the tower played with his shadow on the white-stone walls.

His busy morning of interviews had stretched into a long afternoon, where he barely had time to grab lunch with Hermione and some of the other students. He'd had a run in with Malfoy, who seemed even smugger than usual being followed around by Theodore Nott. _Junior Death Eaters in training_, Harry thought, though the shine on that particular insult seemed darker these days. _Because Malfoy wouldn't see it as an insult?_

After the events in the Hall of Prophecy, losing Sirius through the Veil, and unmasking Lucius Malfoy, so to speak, Harry knew the time that he and Draco Malfoy's rivalry was anything more than playground bullying had long since passed.

But other than that his day had gone well, and he had accepted apprenticeships with Professor Oliveira of Castelobruxo, the Brazilian magical school, and Instructor Quinn from the Ilvermorny Academy in the United States. Harry and the Beauxbatons professor, Faraday, hadn't seen eye to eye. Harry had got the sense the man was looking for nothing more than apprentices to carry his burgeoning cases of scrolls and books, offering very little in actual instruction. If he'd wanted to be a chore horse all summer he would have stayed at the Dursleys.

At five minutes to midnight, Harry stepped out of the tower onto the western balcony and beheld a night sky thick with stars and a rind-full moon. A cool breeze cut through the warm summer night, blowing his hair back, and a ripple of goose bumps ran up and down his arms.

Harry shivered and, without knowing why—perhaps the quietness of the evening, perhaps simply habit at this point—drew his wand.

He was alone atop the tower. His watch read three minutes to midnight.

On one of the balcony's parapets a glass diamond about the size of a quaffle shone softly, pulsing with a light that matched the stars. It drew Harry's eye and, as he approached, he saw the diamond was cradled in a nest of spun gold on four lattice legs like an egg in a cup. The warmer air took on a deeper chill nearer the diamond, and Harry reached out to touch—

"You know, you're not as thick as they say in the Slytherin common room," Daphne Greengrass said, stepping into the moonlight on Harry's left. "You're thicker. Do you know what that is, Potter?"

Harry blinked and let his arm fall back to his side. His scar… tingled, as if he'd spread a numbing ointment across his forehead. He turned to face Daphne. "What is it?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Have you seen Hoovian? He's already fifteen minutes late."

Harry blinked and looked at his watch. Sure enough, it was quarter past the hour. He was certain only a minute ago that the hand hadn't hit twelve yet… He glanced back at the strange diamond. "That thing stole fifteen minutes from me. Is it… like a weird looking time-turner?"

"Nothing so crass," Professor Mathias Hoovian said, sweeping from the shadows in striding, confident steps. He wore a set of pale-green robes, and his eyes—bloodshot again—held the moon. "Miss Greengrass, good evening. And Mr Potter, were you about to touch my demon-genesis attenuation device?

"I was about to, yeah," Harry replied, as Daphne said, "He's very dumb."

"I'm certain I shouldn't be surprised given your reputation for recklessness," Hoovian folded his arms across his chest, "but do you make a habit of touching strange and dangerous objects of which you know nothing about?"

Harry considered, then nodded. "Actually… there is a pattern."

Hoovian grunted. "Well, points for honesty. Do you know what would have happened if you'd touched it?"

"I feel like you want me to say no. So, no, Professor."

"Neither do I," Hoovian said ominously. "It is both attuned and sensitive to wave forms and emanations of dark magic, for want of a better term. Or at least the sediment upon which dark magic flows. Miss Greengrass, who do we know on this tower that's taken a killing curse to the face and lived to talk about it?"

Daphne inclined her head in Harry's direction, her silver hair shining in the moonlight and her lips forming a slow smile.

"And who do we know on this or indeed any tower that's taken part—albeit unwillingly, if the rumours are true—in ritualistic magic twisted enough to resurrect the most fearsome dark lord on the face of the earth?"

Daphne gestured again to Harry.

"Bitten by a basilisk?" Hoovian said.

Harry sighed. "I get it."

"Nearly had his soul sucked out on more than one occasion?"

"Did Dumbledore give you a file on me or something?"

"Has used at least one of the unforgivable curses, only a few weeks ago?" Hoovian finished softly.

Harry glanced at Daphne. She was no longer smiling. Her look had turned speculative, as if seeing him for the first time.

Harry cleared his throat. "So what does your… demon-geni-attenuating-doohickey actually do?"

"Demon-genesis attenuation device. It is an invention of my own design, one of only two in the world," Hoovian said. "For the sake of convenience, I think of it colloquially as the Dementor's Heart."

Harry shivered again—and not from the cold. "That's a depressing name. And what's it doing?"

Hoovian approached the Dementor's Heart and, without hesitating, placed his palm flat on the face of the crystal diamond. Harry took an unconscious step back, expecting the sky to fall. When it didn't, he untightened his grip around his wand a little.

"Right now, Potter? Right now it's testing the atmosphere, the castle grounds, the village of twinkling lights—Hogsmeade, yes?—and out beyond the lake toward the distant mountains for signs of demonic possession, infestation, or tears between this world and the next where something alien may squeeze through."

Harry shared a look with Daphne. "That… that happens often, does it?"

"Where do you think the dementors came from?" she whispered.

That gave Harry pause.

"Do not let Miss Greengrass intimidate you," Hoovian said.

"Too late," Harry quipped.

"Or dissuade you from what could be a promising apprenticeship." Hoovian gestured to his softly glowing diamond. "What say you, Potter?"

Harry considered, but only for a moment, and then offered Hoovian his hand. Once again, Durmstrang's Professor of Demonology didn't take it. He smiled and folded his arms into his robes. "Tomorrow, sunset, you will be here. Miss Greengrass, provide my newest apprentice with his reading list."

In a shaft of butter-golden sunlight shining on one of the faded, bowed tables in the Hogwarts Library, Harry and Hermione sat between a stack of books a foot high. A plate of half-eaten sandwiches and tall glasses of fizzy water rested on the table, as did Harry's snowy-white owl Hedwig, picking at the scraps of ham on Harry's plate.

"Thanks for helping me find all these books," Harry said, slapping the four tomes Daphne had prescribed him on a slip of parchment last night. "I think I'll start with _The Dead Sea Demon Hunter_. Sounds almost like a muggle spy novel, doesn't it?"

"I scanned the foreword," Hermione muttered, without looking up from her studies. She splashed ink across the parchment in front of her, her script tidy and swift, in neat lines. "It's a biography of a wizard who claimed to talk to God and was possessed by evil spirits."

"Wasn't written by Quirrell was it…?" Harry muttered. "I'm sensing you don't approve."

Hermione looked up. "Well, of all the apprenticeships available, the hocus pocus demonology one wouldn't have been my first choice, Harry."

"What was your first choice?"

"Professor Oliveira, of course. She rivals Flamel at his best!"

Harry stroked Hedwig and raised an eyebrow. "Churning out Philosopher's Stones, is she?"

"Well… no, but that was more fluke than precise magical design on Flamel's part—"

"I liked the demonology professor. I mean, he's a bit dramatic, but the Dementor's Heart was cool."

Hermione frowned. "It sounds almost as bad as divination to me."

"She said, to her best friend who is a victim of prophecy." Harry picked up one of his books and tapped the cover. "I'll hunt my first demon before the summer's over, mark my words."

Hermione smiled and then frowned again, looking thoughtful. "Knowing you, that's exactly what will happen. Please try and keep things theoretical, Harry."

Harry flipped open the book, hoping for pictures but expecting walls of text. He was pleasantly surprised to find maps and diagrams as he turned the pages, interspersed with paragraphs of small, cursive text. On some of the pages the ink had run, as if the book had been left open out in the rain, or if someone had been crying over it.

"Did you know Daphne Greengrass has been studying with Professor Hoovian since her first year?" Harry asked.

"She's quite pretty," Hermione replied.

"I mean, sure, yeah," Harry stammered. "She got all weird when I asked her why she already knew Hoovian. Apparently he's a family friend."

Hemrione _tsk_ed. "The pureblood families always have a leg up on their studies."

"None of them hold a candle to you."

Hermione gave him a wry grin. "You'd be charming if you weren't so goofy. Now leave me alone—write some letters to Ron and everyone, letting them know how we're doing."

Hedwig chirped up at that.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said.

At sunset, Harry once again scaled the twisted innards of the Astronomy Tower. He'd skimmed most of the books Daphne had listed him and gotten the general gist of the subject matter. What he hadn't seen was any proof of actual demons, just a whole bunch of theories and interpretations of certain magical phenomena.

After a long afternoon running defensive drills with Instructor Quinn, his back ached and he wondered if accepting the third apprenticeship—which seemed to operate primarily in the evenings—was the best use of his time. He'd already learned a new jinx from the Ilvermorny instructor, and she had been suitably impressed when he'd produced a patronus with no visible effort.

_Long practice_, Harry had said. Instructor Quinn, a shorter woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a smattering of freckles below blue eyes, nodded once. _Seeing is believing, Potter_._ Now show me your disarming technique._

The practical experience of firing off spells felt good, particularly given the target on his back, and made Harry feel like maybe his time was best spent focusing on his studies there. He more than expected another encounter with Voldemort and his crew, given the prophecy. Wasting his time with Hoovian on strange theories when he could be training was probably the wrong move.

Hermione agreed, and Hermione was quite smart.

Harry dashed up the last flight of curving stairs, his mind made up to ditch the apprenticeship, as the sun dipped below the peaks of the distant mountains and a shadow under twilight fell across the castle.

At the top of the tower, Harry met a demon.

Within a circle of flame, which licked and danced along her blood-red skin, a tall figure stood wearing nothing but a cloak of what looked like liquid shadow. Harry had no other word to describe it—the cloak flowed like water, but was as black-fleeting as shadow, hanging to her ankles and billowing softly in the light summer breeze.

Uncertain on just what was expected of him, Harry averted his gaze from her nakedness and locked it solely on the demon's face. Apart from the crimson skin, she appeared human...ish—two legs, two arms, and a sharp face that Harry would put on someone in their early twenties. A flow of jet-black hair cascaded to her shoulders, spreading out over the shadow cloak and making it impossible to tell where her hair ended and the cloak began.

Her eyes, which settled almost lazily on Harry, were orbs of cerulean light cracked with yellow lines, like splintered glass, devoid of any white surrounding the iris.

Harry ever so slowly reached for his wand. The demon smirked. Harry paused and kept the wand in his back pocket.

"Eh... hello," he said. "Can I... would you like a jacket, or something?"

The demon licked her lips. "Or something. What is your name?"

Harry looked past the demon and saw the large diamond in the Dementor's Heart, Hoovian's wacky gadget, was spinning madly in its nest. The clear gemstone had rusted over.

Daphne Greengrass stepped across the balcony with a heavy book cradled open in her arms, her silver hair tied up in a neat and practical ponytail. "Be nice to him, Alice," she said. "He's a little slow."

The demon, Alice, nodded once. "Oh, but if you could see him as I see him, Daphne, perhaps you would not be so dismissive. He _burns_, my dear. So many conflicting currents all spinning about his head. He wears a crown of prophecy."

"So this is... normal?" Harry asked Daphne. "How worried should I be?"

"Alice is an old friend," Daphne said, without looking up from her book. "And a close confidante of Professor Hoovian. Just remember the ground rules and you'll be fine."

Harry considered that. "Ground rules?"

Daphne looked up. "You didn't do the reading."

"I did _some_ of the reading."

Daphne closed her book and gave Alice an apologetic glance. "Dealing with demons. Rule One: Don't. Rule Two: politeness and respect go a long way. Three, unless you like being spellbound, never walk into the circle." She gestured to the ring of dark orange fire around Alice. "Four, no full names freely given. Only ever part with a piece of your name, and only if you must. His name is Harry, Alice."

A frustrated frown creased Alice's brow.

"She's upset you didn't tell her yourself," Daphne said. "There's power in names. But only you can surrender the power of your name. Me telling her does nothing."

"Spoil sport and childish," Alice muttered, but gave Daphne a warm grin.

"Rule Five," Professor Hoovian said, stepping onto the balcony from Harry's left and walking through the fire surrounding Alice, and never-you-mind Rule Three. He embraced the demon as if they were old lovers, and Harry saw her hands left burning prints on the back of his white shirt. He seemed otherwise unharmed. "Nothing offered is ever freely given. Everything has a price."

Alice kissed Hoovian's cheek and he stepped away to tinker with the Dementor's Heart. He soothed the device and placed his palm flat against the diamond, drawing out the rust, and returned the gem to clarity.

Alice caught Harry's stare again. "Rule Six, Harry," she said, "and given the maelstrom swirling about you this is an important one, _not over or under, but in-between, is where you'll find the unblessed unseen." _A halo of pale white light flared into existence around Alice's head before disappearing just as quickly.

Hoovian gave the demon a troubled look, and Harry read the look on Daphne's face as mildly offended. "Don't riddle the boy, Alice," Hoovian said, and the jovial tone in his voice was gone. "He's bound enough as is."

"Years..." Daphne whispered, before turning on the spot and marching past Harry away from the balcony. He thought he saw tears edging in the corner of her eyes.

Harry asked the obvious question. "Why... how is there a demon named Alice here?"

Hoovian gave him a sharp glance. "Thinking of ditching the apprenticeship, weren't you?"

Harry guarded his mind as best he could, which was still quite poor, with a shield of flimsy occlumency. "Are you a legilimens? You have to tell me if you are, that's the law."

"I don't need to be a bleeding mind reader to know your thoughts, Potter."

"Harry Potter," Alice whispered and gave him a wicked grin.

"If I was thinking about quitting, I'm no longer thinking that," Harry said. He echoed Instructor Quinn, "Seeing is believing."

Hoovian stared at him for a long moment and then nodded sharply. "Alice is here as a guest speaker for your first lecture under my apprenticeship," he said. "I don't have time to convince you this is all real—and there is no better teacher of demonic culture on this or any side of the Seam. Alice, Demonology 101 for young Master Potter, if you'd be so kind. Harry, grab a chair from inside."

Harry summoned a chair and sat down slowly. "I thought nothing was freely given," he said, not quite making it a question.

Hoovian stroked the rough stubble coating his cheeks and grinned. "The price for _Alysheshka's_ services has long since been paid. Listen close, Harry, and listen well."

Some hours later, Harry's head throbbing with new and absurd information on life, death, demons and all that stood in between—some of which sounded outright hellish—and the fiery circle Alice remained poised in had dwindled to a thin line of fire no wider than candle flame.

Hoovian withdrew a golden pocket watch and checked the hour. "Quarter to midnight, Alice dear. Best you be across the veil before the clock strikes twelve."

Alice stretched her hands over her head and sighed. Harry, for the first time, noticed that what he'd taken for a cloak of shadow was, in fact, a pair of wings. Thin, dragonfly wings comprised of liquid smoke. Alice could fly. "I was having fun scaring Harry," she pouted.

Hoovian gave her a wry grin. "This one doesn't scare so easy. Now away with you back home. 'Ware my powerful magicks of sending, demon."

Alice snorted. "Oh, please." She inclined her head to Harry. "Very well, though. Harry, remember what I said, remember _all_ of what I said. We will meet again."

The fire flared up, the heat forcing Harry back in his chair, and when he blinked Alice was gone. A precise chalk circle remained in place around where she had stood, without complaint, for the last few hours. Hoovian set about sweeping it away with a quick spell. His wand, Harry saw, was a curve of some white wood and cracked, as if it were petrified.

"Professor," Harry began.

"No," Hoovian said without looking at him.

Harry bit his tongue... for all of three seconds. "Why did Daphne leave upset?" he asked.

Hoovian sighed. _"Not over or under, but in-between, is where you'll find the unblessed unseen."_

"The riddle?" Harry frowned. "Honestly the less I have to do with riddles the better."

"It's not a riddle. Not _only_ a riddle." Hoovian cracked his knuckles, one by one, and seemed lost in thought staring out over the parapets of the castle. The Dementor's Heart sang a soft song, a low chime, like distant church bells. "A part of this story is not mine to tell, no, not in the least. And still..."

He turned back to Harry and pointed a finger at him.

"You, Harry Potter, are selfish. A knack for finding trouble, surviving the unsurvivable, and being treated as both hero and villain has made you... _expectant_. You draw all kinds of unwanted attention."

Harry stood and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't follow."

"No, you don't, and it's not your fault. Mostly. Mostly not your fault." Hoovian ran a hand back through his hair and sighed again. "What Alice gave you in that _riddle_, for want of a better word, was a key—an invitation, even—to call on her and her kind for a favour."

"That doesn't seem like something-"

"I've known men spend a hundred years fighting and clawing for a scrap of what you were just given in a moment." Hoovian paused. "And for what Miss Greengrass has been striving for since she was born. That is all I'll say on her business."

Harry considered pushing his luck, but the shadow that settled on Hoovian's face convinced him otherwise. He changed tactics. "What favour could I possibly want from demons?"

Hoovian laughed without humour, with malice. "Can you truly think of nothing?"

Harry had little to no understanding of what Alice and her ilk were capable of, but the evening had given him a glimpse. Dark and terrible magic. What had Hoovian said two nights ago at the welcoming dinner? _Soul-splitting good fun_. Harry guessed the cost of his favour might be something he'd find it difficult to part with.

And still... He could ask for a way to defeat Voldemort, a way to bring Sirius back from beyond the veil...

"There it is," Hoovian said. "That look on your face. Mark my words, Potter, I will beat the sense into you needed to deal with demons. Remember that nothing in this or _their_ world comes without a price. Now away with you."

Lost in his thoughts on the way back to his room, Harry found himself out of habit heading for Gryffindor Tower. It wasn't until he was through the portrait of the Fat Lady and in the empty common room that he remembered he was staying on the other side of the castle in the hotel-style rooms Hogwarts kept polished for visiting guests and, in this case, academics and apprentices.

With a frustrated sigh, he mapped out the quickest way back in his head, ducking through a secret passage or two, and decided not to bother. He climbed the stairs to his dormitory and, shrugging down to his underwear, collapsed into his familiar bed. He drew the curtains across the four-posts, cocooning himself away from the world, and shoved his wand under his pillow.

He wondered on Daphne Greengrass, on why she'd be searching her whole life for favours from demons, and thinking such thoughts Harry fell into a sleep plagued with troubling dreams.

The next morning, Harry rose early and headed back across the castle to his room—he wanted a shower and a change of clothes before breakfast. As he approached the third-floor rooms he and the other apprentices were staying in, he caught the edge of hurried and disturbed conversation from around the corner.

"Well, where is he?" Hermione demanded. "Professor, has he been taken?"

"Miss Granger," Headmaster Dumbledore said. "Although the scene is disturbing, there is nothing to indicate such a thing."

A gaggle of other voices chimed in as Harry rounded the corridor and found, not much to his surprise, a group of familiar faces standing outside of his private room.

"Has who been taken?" he asked.

Hermione gasped and barrelled into him at full speed, enveloping him in a double-armed hug. Her curly hair tickled his chin. Harry hugged her back.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said. He wore a pair of striped pyjamas, in the muggle style, which seemed both oddly out of place and endearing to Harry. "We were about to send out a search party. You are well, my boy?"

"As well as can be," Harry said, scanning the other faces. Professors McGonagall and Snape were in attendance, as was the caretaker Filch clutching his nasty cat. Instructor Quinn from Ilvermorny, in a bedroom robe and pink slippers, was casting quick and muttered magic under her breath at the floor. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Dumbledore stepped aside as Harry untangled himself from Hermione, allowing him access to his room through the ornate wooden door which, Harry noticed, hung on broken and splintered hinges as if it had been kicked in—or suffered the brunt of a blasting curse or two.

Harry stepped into the doorway and found his room had been tossed.

The bed was overturned, the sheets torn and feathery pillows shredded. The heavy mahogany desk was hanging in the shattered remains of the window, teetering like a seesaw in the breeze. His chest of drawers had been thrown open, his clothes scattered, and across all the walls and floors were splashes of red that could only be blood.

His trunk seemed to have withstood a few blasts of spellfire, but the lock looked scorched and warped.

"Well," Harry said, "I have a few questions."

* * *

**NEXT UPDATE 21-DEC-19.**

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	3. Galleons in the Night

**Chapter Three – Galleons in the Night**

"Question the first," Harry said, directing his question to Headmaster Dumbledore. "Nothing to indicate I'd been taken?" He gestured to the ruined and blood-stained room. "Seriously?"

Dumbledore chuckled into his beard, though with little mirth. "In light of the increased threat posed by Lord Voldemort and his followers, and to you in particular Harry, heightened security measures are in place at Hogwarts into the foreseeable future."

Harry walked over to his trunk and tried the lock. No good, it was warped and broken. With a grunt of effort, he forced the lid, which split along the hinges and hung like an overbite against the frame.

"What about the unforeseeable future?" he asked. "Whoever did this—"

"Did so in a hurry," the headmaster said. "I was alerted to the disturbance, to a concentration of destructive magic, moments after this occurred. Approximately just before five in the morning. The staff and myself responded swiftly."

Harry checked his watch—it was coming up for six. "So we've narrowed it down to someone with a wand then."

"Sarcasm, Mr Potter," Snape said, "will not be tolerated."

Harry ignored him and spent a long moment thinking through the scene. The belongings he had stored in his trunk—invisibility cloak, the Marauder's Map—were all accounted for. As best he could tell, nothing had been taken. Just destroyed. If anything, despite the devastation, the attacker had left more than they'd taken.

"Second question, whose blood is that?" Already the smears and pools of crimson ichor were dry or congealing. The rust-red scent of blood clung to the air, even with the breeze through the broken window.

"Well, it's not human," Instructor Quinn said. She was mindful not to step in any of the mess with her fluffy pink slippers. "As best I can tell from the diagnostics, it's chicken blood. Maybe duck."

"Are all the lake ducks accounted for?" Harry asked, earning himself another scowl from Professor Snape.

Hermione frowned. "That makes even less sense."

"Someone out to get me, but not willing to spill a little honest human blood?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, that's not what I mean, Harry." Hermione brushed aside some of his clothing with her wand, noting that cutting curses had been used to shred the shirts and trousers. "Whoever did this, it feels... personal. As in, if this was done to me—my clothing, my belongings—I'd feel like it was someone that hated me."

"Malfoy," Harry said.

Snape scoffed and folded his arms within his robes. "Come now, Potter. Your schoolboy rivalry with—"

"The son of a known and active Death Eater," Harry cut in.

Snape bristled. "Ten points from—" The potions master caught himself. "Headmaster, I will question Mr Malfoy, but I find it doubtful he had a hand in such... an obvious assault."

Harry snorted and Instructor Quinn looked at him askance. "No, you're right, Snape. Malfoy would stab me in the back in the dark. He doesn't have the nerve for something like this."

"Then I would ask you not to accuse your fellow apprentices without proper—"

"Gentlemen," Headmaster Dumbledore said softly. "The matter will be investigated thoroughly. Harry, we will move you and your... salvageable property... to a new room. One with a stronger lock, hmm? In the interim, I suggest a trip to Diagon Alley may be in order. You may use the floo in my office, should you like."

* * *

After a shower and breakfast—though still wearing yesterday's clothes—Harry strolled with Hermione and company through the sunny, cobblestoned streets of Diagon Alley heading for Gringott's to top up his purse.

Though only halfway toward noon, the day was already warming up, and Harry felt himself sweating under his collar. He wondered just which members of the Order were following him around at a discreet distance, and hoped one of them was Remus. The alley felt subdued, however, almost haunted—and some of the stores had been boarded up, torn and crinkled parchment nailed to the wood stating 'CLOSED'.

"All of your clothes?" Cho Chang asked. "And covered in blood, Harry? That's so... mean. Who do you think did it? Malfoy?"

"He was my first guess, yeah," Harry said, then sighed. "But... it's not his style. I don't think he'd risk dirtying his fancy robes with chicken blood."

That got a laugh from the group as they walked past the outer façade of the twisted maze of book shelves within Flourish & Blotts. Hermione veered in by habit, making promises to catch-up with them later for ice cream. Harry knew he had a good hour if not more before he'd be able to pull her out of the shop.

Along for the adventure that morning, apart from Hermione and Cho, were Justin Finch-Fletchley, Colin Creevey, Katie Bell, and the Gryfifndor girl with black-golden hair who Harry could now name as Romilda Vane. Safety in numbers, the headmaster was perhaps thinking. Either way, Harry wanted to get the boring shopping out of the way so he could get to the ice cream.

That was, until, he stumbled round the slight bend in the alley, where the cobblestones became limestone slabs before becoming the lauded marble of Gringotts, and beheld the wondrous monstrosity located at Number 93 Diagon Alley.

_Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_

Justin burst out laughing. "Now that's the best eyesore I've ever seen."

In contrast to the other drab and weary stores surrounding what Harry could only conceive of as a joke shop, the store he'd heard whispers of from Ron, Fred, and George burst with a vibrant red and gold colour, and a hundred different gizmos, prank products, and harmless little pixies flirted to and fro across the storefront. Within, a burgeoning crowd packed cramped aisles full of products that Merlin alone knew what mischief could be wrought.

Harry and his crew made a beeline for the store, spirits raised, and for Harry—a swell of something that may have been pride mixed with a fierce defiance to the shadow Voldemort's return cast over the otherwise dim bastion of wizarding commerce.

Or maybe he was just excited.

The store within was an insane cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells that had his head spinning. Colin and Romilda stuck with Harry as he explored the shelves, wrangled through the crowds, and laughed at some of the items on display. He hoped Umbridge, wherever the hag may be, knew about the store and how business was booming.

Behind the counter of the store, he found both Ginny and Ron—who looked overworked and underappreciated. Their faces lit up with genuine smiles when he approached, and the steady cling of the coin register waned into fast hugs and a kiss on the cheek from Ginny, which Harry felt long after she stepped back behind the counter.

"Mate," Ron said. "I just got your owl this morning. Let me get it straight, you signed up for extra homework over the summer... on purpose?"

"The advanced courses offered in the summer are really cool," Romilda said, and brushed Harry's arm. "Right, Harry?"

Ginny frowned at her, which was a sign even Harry could read.

Colin dropped a bounty of Weasley products on the counter. "There was no darkness powder left of the shelf! Any out back?"

Fred or George Weasley appeared as if by magic and handed Colin a box of the powder. "Always on hand," he said. "Morning, Harry. What do you think of the store?"

"I think it looks like a hippogriff was violently ill in the Gryffindor common room," he said.

Fred or George nodded happily. "That was what we were going for, yeah." He frowned at his sales staff. "Back to work, you two. No breaks until we're through this rush."

"It's been a bloody rush since bloody eight o'clock," Ron muttered. "When do I get the five sickles you promised?"

"Brother, dear," the other twin appeared. "In discussion with management, we've determined your services are no longer required."

"Eh?" Ron said. "I'm fired?"

"The pair of you, yes," Fred or George said. "But just for the morning. We'll watch the counter and deal with the rabble. Go and make sure Harry Potter doesn't get jumped out in the alley."

* * *

"Hoovian sounds like a bit of alright," Ginny said. "Tall and handsome, I'm picturing. Does he have an alluring European accent?"

Ron slowed his ice cream spoon to a stop halfway between the cup and his mouth. "Lockhart all over again," he muttered.

"Yeah except Hoovian seems to be the real deal," Harry said. "Hermione, you met him, and I met a magical creature that seemed fairly demonic, what do you think?"

Hermione clutched a brown paper-wrapped stack of books on her lap and shrugged. "I'll take your word for it, but if you'd asked me yesterday I would have said he was making things up. Or just hypothesising, I suppose." She paused, considered, then grinned. "He has a soft accent, Ginny, yes. And nice arms."

Ron scowled. "No volunteering information."

Harry and his friends had secured three tables at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, and a good quarter gallon of ice cream a piece to enjoy under the warm summer sun. Their tables of excited and laughing teens warmed the passing crowds as much as the sun, drawn to their merriment against the otherwise monumental weight of Voldemort's return.

Florean Fortescue himself appeared after about ten minutes, and offered Harry a wafer cone of emerald green ice cream thick with a caramel, near-black, syrup and long veins of fudge.

"Mr. Potter," he said. "It would be my privilege if you were the first to try the parlour's latest flavour."

Harry took the cone with a bemused smile. "What's the flavour?"

"Mint and treacle fudge," he said with a grin, doffing his hat. "I've been thinking of calling it Dark Lord's Demise. Any thoughts?"

Harry considered, then nodded. He took a bite and found the ice cream as delicious as always.

Fortescue waved behind Harry and one of the shop assistants appeared with a magical camera on a tripod. He raised an eyebrow. "What do you say? A promotional photo for the window?"

Ron and Hermione looked worried, but Harry gave a shrug. "Voldemort already wants me dead anyway. Might as well tweak his nose a little."

"Thought he didn't have a nose?" Ron asked.

Harry laughed and stood up, putting himself in frame in front of Fortescue's shop. He held up the ice cream cone with one hand, gave a thumbs-up with the other, and beamed at the camera. The flash nearly blinded him.

* * *

After a hurried visit to Gringotts and suffering through a good long hour of Ginny and Hermione picking out new clothes for him—shirts, trousers, and jackets—Harry waved farewell to Ron and Ginny back at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and met up with the apprenticeship crew outside the apothecary.

From there it was a short walk to the floo at the Leaky Cauldron, passing back across the courtyard of Fortescue's-where Harry's photo was already poster-size and smiling in the window under a banner proclaiming '_Try Our New Flavour!'_

"Oh," Hermione said, bouncing from foot to foot. "I hope Mr Fortescue doesn't get in much trouble for that."

"He's made himself a target," Harry agreed, "but then... I mean, he's at least chosen a side. Unless he's playing some long con, which I doubt as he could have just easily poisoned the ice cream if he wanted to do me in, then you have to admire him for standing up to Voldemort."

Romilda Vane squeaked and shivered. "It's such an awful name, Harry. You're so brave to say it."

"Eh... thanks, yeah." Harry hopped back on his train of thought. "I'm just saying it's good to know we're not in this alone."

Hermione bit her lip and then squeezed his shoulder, biting back on her worry... for now.

"I'll fight Vol... You-Know... Volde-Who as well, Harry!" Colin Creevey spoke up, giving Romilda a furtive glance. "Voldemort!"

Harry chuckled and patted Colin on the back. "Look I'm not planning on it anytime soon, mate, but if a spot opens up on my gang of unlucky fools that end up fighting seventy-year-old undead Dark Lords every year, I'll take a look at your resume." He paused. "It usually means you get out of exams, at least."

Cho laughed at that, and Harry forced himself not to start firing off furtive glances of his own.

* * *

That evening most of the student apprentices got together in Harry's new room, which was much larger than his previous one, though with the same commanding view over the eastern castle grounds, for a small party.

Harry convinced the house elves to bring up a few trays of food from the kitchen, and Justin Finch-Fletchley produced a bottle of Firewhisky which, he claimed, he'd pinched from one of the staff cabinets. Justin looked at Cho when he said this, so Harry suspected the truth of the whisky may have been a touch more mundane.

However the contraband had been acquired, Harry was eager to try it.

Hermione balked as the bottle was passed around but Harry, sitting comfortably on one of the two leather couches surrounding an ornate, ancient coffee table of some dark, rich wood, shrugged and knocked back a sip. The liquor burned down his throat, sharp and warm at the same time, and settled comfortably in his stomach. He passed the bottle on to Romilda, who had squeezed onto the couch next to him between Justin and Colin.

She giggled and took a long sip, pretending along like the rest of them that they knew what they were doing, they were all immortal and going to live forever, and didn't hate the taste.

"Honestly, Harry," Hermione said as the bottle made its way around the couches, heading up to Katie Bell who leaned against the bookshelf, and back down and around. "This is a bit much, isn't it?"

"Oh I don't think there's much mischief we can manage here," Harry said. "As long as we keep things quiet."

"Yeah, Hermione," Romilda said, "don't be a spoil-sport."

Hermione glared as Harry took another swig from the bottle. He felt comfortably warm now, fuzzy. Romilda brushed his knee with hers and he didn't mind in the least.

"If being responsible is being a spoil—" Hermione cut herself off and took a bite of one of the pastries from the food trays instead. "You know what, never mind."

Harry felt a little hot under the collar and undid the top button on his new blue shirt. He and the other six students in the room chattered and laughed amongst themselves, and between so many mouths the whisky was soon depleted, leaving Harry feeling better than he had in... well, ever. He felt good, relaxed.

Unburdened.

Someone produced a wizarding wireless and tuned it to an upbeat broadcast, the Weird Sisters, a few other bands, adding to the party atmosphere.

"Tell us about You-Know-Who coming back, Harry!" Colin said. "Was it..." He floundered and shrugged. "Scary?"

Harry felt seven pairs of eyes on him and, whether it was the whisky or the weather, he chuckled. "Super scary," he said. "Do you guys know he looks like he ran into a wall?" He squished his own nose down, his skin felt tingly. "Like this."

That got a round of laughs and, Harry noted without really caring, a frown from Hermione.

And as if the floodgates had opened, he was bombarded with questions:

"What's with the snake?"

"How many Death Eaters does he have?"

"How did you fight him?"

"Are you going to try and stop him, mate?"

Harry quietened everyone down and held a finger to his lips. "Shhhhush. There's a prophecy," he whispered, aiming for mysterious, "a dark and terrible prophecy—"

"Harry," Hermione said quietly, "maybe not the right crowd..."

Harry frowned and, through the befuddlement he felt, found that a small, rational piece of his mind agreed. He grinned. "Yeah, old Dumbledore probably doesn't want us talking about that, does he?"

"No, Harry," Hermione said.

Harry shared his grin with the room at large. "None of you talk about the prophecy that definitely doesn't exist about me and Voldemort having to kill one another. OK?"

A polite sea of wide-eyed faces gazed back at him.

Feeling even warmer, Harry ran a hand back through his hair. He felt a... sort of a tug, in the back of his mind, and looked up through the ceiling of his room toward where the Astronomy Tower stood on the other side of the castle. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but even that felt like he was moving through syrup.

"I think we should call it an early night," Hermione said. "Harry?"

Harry considered, then nodded. He wanted to stay, to touch Romilda's knee some more, but a part of him—the part that trusted Hermione implicitly—overrode his desire to laugh, to keep throwing caution to the wind, to drink more whisky and forget about the dark and scary world beyond the walls of his opulent room.

People began to filter out, Romilda cast him a pouting glance over her shoulder, and Hermione gave him a hug before departing as well.

Feeling a bit of breathing room, though still wrestling with that tug in his mind, and thinking on Hoovian's Dementor's Heart, Harry turned back to clear away the trays and found Cho Chang was still in his room.

"Er... hey," he said. "Hey, Cho."

"Hey yourself," she replied and stepped up to Harry, leaning back against the edge of the couch. She was close enough that he could smell the scent of her perfume, a rich lavender, and see himself in her eyes. "It was nice to see you relax for once."

"Was it?" Harry said. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. His heart was beating as loud as thunder in his chest.

Cho smiled. "It was. We all see you around the castle, Harry, walking as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, well, it kind of is."

"I'll bet," Cho replied, rolling her eyes not unkindly. "So, it's still early, what... do you want to do?" She gave him a small smile full of secrets he knew not.

Harry licked his lips and took a deep breath. He stepped closer to her. "Do you... Cho, do you want...?"

"What do I want, Harry?" she whispered.

Harry shivered. "Do you want to go up to the Astronomy Tower?"

Cho blinked and leaned back, retreated just an inch or two. "I... what?"

"The Astronomy Tower," Harry said excitedly. "There's something I want to show you."

Cho took a long moment to respond, staring at him as if she was worried, and then shrugged. She sighed. "I mean, sure, if you want..."

"Great," Harry said, and took his hand in her own, almost pulling her along behind him. "Let's go."

Atop of the Astronomy Tower, buzzed and warm, Harry dragged Cho over the faint remains of the chalk outline that had contained the demon Alice, and with a fervour usually reserved for the Quidditch Pitch, showed her the Dementor's Heart.

"This is what you wanted to show me?" Cho asked. "I mean, it's nice, I suppose."

Harry didn't hear her. He stared deep into the heavy diamond, which floated a few inches above its cradle, pulsating softly with a light as red as demon skin.

He wanted to touch it.

He reached out to touch it.

"_Harry!" _a stern voice cried. "_Stupefy!"_

Instincts faster than thought, Harry's wand was in his hand—he didn't remember drawing it—and he parried the stunning spell as naturally as he drew breath. He glared over his shoulder at Professor Hoovian, who closed the gap between them fast and yanked Harry back by his collar—which was drenched with sweat.

Harry's free hand, which had been reaching for the Dementor's Heart, was pulled away from the spinning diamond.

He blinked, his head clearing a bit. "What's with the pushing and shoving?" he asked, tears stinging his eyes. "Let me go!"

"Idiot. Fool," Hoovian cursed, and whether he was talking to Harry or himself was unclear.

"Harry," Cho said softly, "your eyes are bleeding."

"Of course they are," Daphne Greengrass said, appearing on the balcony behind Hoovian. She carried a golden rope which shone with a radiance similar to moonlight. "You should leave, Chang."

"I..." Cho glanced at Harry, who shook his head and dabbed at the blood on his cheeks, ignoring her entirely. "I, well, OK." She practically fled from the balcony.

Hoovian muttered a low incantation, just on the edge of Harry's hearing, in a language he didn't know or recognise—a harsh, guttural speak that stood in stark contrast to the almost lyrical flow of Latin. Whatever it was, Harry felt the pressure on his mind ease, the near-burning he felt on his skin fade, and the fuzziness from the whisky clear.

"What... what's wrong with me?" he asked.

"Goddamn demons," Hoovian grunted. "Harry, I'm going to bind your hands, do you understand?"

"No you're bloody not!" He raised his wand again.

Hoovian met his wand with his own and glared.

"Honestly," Daphne sighed. She stepped between them, her silver hair tinted red in the light of the Dementor's Heart. She produced a tissue from her pocket and, gently, dabbed the blood from the corners of Harry's eyes. "Potter," she said, "trust me."

Harry considered her for a long moment, crying tears of blood, and then nodded once.

Hoovian took a step back with a heavy sigh and Daphne—slowly, carefully—wrapped the golden rope around Harry's wrists, binding his hands. She plucked his wand from his fist and placed it, within reach, on the nearest parapet.

The golden rope itched around Harry's wrists, and he felt as if he were mired in a cloud of thick fog.

"Right then," Hoovian said. "Let's get it out of you."

"Get what out of me?" Harry asked.

Hoovian waved his hands in a complex pattern over the Dementor's Heart, and the colour within the diamond changed from crimson to pale gold, matching the rope binding Harry's hands. At the same time, he heard a _hiss_ deep within his mind, like a snake, and a balloon of pressure pressed against his skull.

A moment later, the balloon popped, and smoke as thick and as black as tar bled from Harry's eyes. The Dementor's Heart chimed like a church bell and the liquid smoke was drawn into the diamond, diluting and muddying the golden light, before it was overwhelmed and dissipated within the depths of the device.

Harry staggered, felt cold rush through him as if he'd been tossed naked into a snow bank, and stumbled into Daphne. She held him up until he found his feet. The golden rope binding his hands fell away, frayed and tattered.

"What," Harry said, his voice hoarse, "just happened?"

Hoovian reached for his face and held his eyes open, shining wand light into them, glaring until he was satisfied with what he saw. "A... parasite latched onto you," he said. "Likely when you were talking to Alice yesterday." He cursed. "It should not have happened. Humans are immune to such low-level possession. You have to _invite_ it."

"I didn't invite anything," Harry said.

"I know," Hoovian said grimly. "I watched you the whole time, and Alice, too."

"So how...?" He glanced at Daphne. "What was it doing to me?"

Hoovian shook his head. "Nothing severe, since we caught it so early. Likely you've been acting a bit erratically today, hmm? Behaving out of character? As if you were drunk?"

Harry thought back on his day, the impromptu party, the whisky, and back further to posing for a photo at the ice cream parlour. "Oh... dear," he said. "You got it out, yeah? Whatever _it_ is?"

"Think of it like a slug, or an imp," Daphne said. "And yes, you're clean."

"I don't feel clean." Harry squirmed. He felt grimy, and wanted a long bath.

"Imps swarm unseen around the true Unblessed like Alice," Hoovian said. "They're always there, but haven't posed a danger to humanity in thousands of years. Our... souls... for lack of a better word, developed an immunity." The Durmstrang Professor exchanged a dark look with Daphne.

"I told you," she said, "this one ignores the rules."

"I'm starting to believe you." Hoovian took his head in his hands and rubbed his face. After a long moment, he looked up, and his eyes were as bloodshot as Harry's felt. "This requires investigating, but not so close to midnight. We need sunlight. Potter, report to this tower at noon tomorrow. Make sure you get some rest before then."

Cursing to himself, Hoovian swept from the balcony, leaving Harry and Daphne alone in the starlight.

"Are you OK then?" she asked after a moment of awkward silence. "I mean, if you need it, I can walk you back to your room."

"My room..." Harry muttered, shaking his head.

"Look," Daphne said, "it can't feel good, but you're OK now."

"I had Cho Chang alone in my room, wanting to stay, and I made us leave," Harry said, cold with clarity. He looked at Daphne. "I made us leave to come look at a shiny crystal. Daphne, am I... I'm an idiot."

"Yes, Potter, you are," she said, and her grin could have conquered the universe. "What on earth possessed you?"

* * *

**NEXT UPDATE 28-DEC-19.**

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	4. The Brutality in the Shadows

**Chapter Four – The Brutality in the Shadows**

Basking in the summer sun with cold goblets of bubbly lemonade and slices of fresh, sugar-crusted raspberry tart, Harry leaned against the parapets of the Astronomy Tower next to Daphne as Professor Hoovian paced back and forth in front of a levitating chalkboard, upon which he'd scribbled rough notes and archaic runes that seemed fairly demon-y… demon-_esque_… to Harry's untrained eye.

"Demons is a harsh word for a harsh species," Hoovian said, running a hand back through his hair, "but much like humans, they're not all bad. Sure, you have your subclasses like the dementors, or the wraiths, or the reavers, but they're all cut from the same cloth—soul stealers, the lot of them, and they must be fought as encountered, destroyed where possible."

"How do you destroy a dementor?" Harry asked. "That's impossible."

"This side of the veil, certainly," Hoovian said, "but draw them home, through the Seam... to the Gardens…"

Harry sipped his lemonade and nodded along. Hoovian seemed half in his own thoughts, as if he'd forgotten he had an audience. Daphne looked bored, she'd heard it all before, and held a paperback book folded along the spine full of a neat, tidy script. Harry had been trying and failing to glimpse the title.

"The barriers between worlds are thin toward midnight," Hoovian said. "And on nights with no moon, the gateways are practically flung open for anyone with the will to do something stupid." He looked at Harry.

Harry asked the obvious question. "So it being just past noon on this bright sunny day, it's a bit safer to talk about these things?"

"Exactly, particularly given that you're marked now."

"I'm marked?"

"Scarred, really, but not a scar that can be seen. You—somehow, against all reason—were possessed by an imp. When dealing with demons, they'll be able to see the marks of that possession on... on your soul." He tapped a rune on the chalkboard. "Echoes of that possession may grip you still, make you reckless. Something to monitor."

Harry frowned. "So, the other demons like Alice know I'm not a demonic virgin? Is that a bad thing?"

Hoovian waved his question away. "Good or bad, light and dark, is more a matter of perception, hmm? Your Lord Voldemort, does he consider himself the villain?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond and then closed it slowly, thoughtfully. "Voldemort is nothing more than a murderer," he said after a long moment.

"A prolific murderer, and of more than just good and decent wizarding folk." Hoovian flicked his wand and a piece of chalk scrawled the rough outline of a man on the board. Within the chest, he drew a crude heart which shone with a soft light. "Man and his soul."

"What's the point?" Harry asked.

"All magic comes from the heart—from the soul, Harry. It's why they're so coveted by demons, why they're so powerful, and why anyone that goes messing with them ends up burnt."

Harry drained his goblet and placed it on the parapet. He eyed the Dementor's Heart, which sat inactive under the height and warmth of the summer sun. "So the imp, or whatever it was that made me—"

"Fun?" Daphne suggested.

"Act irrationally," Harry said. "How did it latch on to my soul? Is that what you're getting at?"

"What I'm getting at," Hoovian said, "is that your soul, your complete and unshattered soul, should have been able to fight off the imp as if it were swatting a fly. The fact that it didn't suggests a corruption at the very core of your being."

Harry muttered and grumbled to himself.

"What was that?" Hoovian barked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing, indeed." He cursed. "Potter, if I wasn't so damned intrigued by you and your... affinities... this apprenticeship would have already ended. You lack the temperament for proper demonological pursuit."

"Well now you just sound like a disgruntled Potions Master. Please tell me you didn't know my mother."

Hoovian ceased his pacing. "You've lost me."

"Never mind. Wasn't that funny." Harry shrugged. "Look, I'm not the expert, but I think we're all thinking the same thing here—you've heard the stories, it's whatever connects me to Voldemort that let the imp get its claws into me, yeah?"

Daphne placed her book down and, for the first time, looked interested. "How are you connected to the Dark Lord?"

"Show me your forearms and I'll tell you."

Daphne frowned. "I'm no Death Eater! My family stands—"

"Children, please," Hoovian said. "Harry, you go too far."

"Yeah, well," Harry said, crossing his arms, "sometimes going too far is just the beginning."

Daphne looked at him strangely.

"What?"

"You think that sounded clever, don't you?"

"Little bit."

"Getting back to _my_ lecture," Hoovian said, "Harry, the thing that latched on to you came from the Garden of Shadows."

Harry said nothing, though he raised a single eyebrow in question.

"A realm that exists between this world and the Seam… or alongside the Seam. Tangled within it, maybe. It is a place unbound by time and devastated by magic."

"Magic?" Harry asked.

Daphne looked to Hoovian, who inclined his head ever so slightly. "There was a war," she said, flicking her silver hair over one shoulder, "between humans and demons. We're not sure what started it, who's to blame, but we know who ended it—magical folk. Our magic is entirely inhospitable, like throwing erumpent fluid on a fire, with the Garden."

Harry blinked along, wondering if they'd ever covered this in History of Magic.

"The wizards of the time bore a hole between the realms, broke the walls between worlds, and unleashed their magic against the demons in the Garden. The war ended, certainly, but to use a muggle term, the nuclear option burnt us, too. The demons refer to the wizarding attack on their homelands as the Brutality. Entire countries, for want of a better word, within the Garden of Shadows were annihilated. A tornado of magical wildfire tearing through dry tinder."

"Sounds like overkill," Harry said.

"We killed nothing—merely made large tracts and swaths of the demonic realms inhospitable. The backlash from that attack hurled the dementors into our world, among other, nastier corruptions that have now led, full circle all these thousands of years later, to you, Harry."

The edge on the breeze made Harry shiver, and although no cloud had crossed the sun, the world seemed to dim.

Harry licked his lips. "What now?"

"You're a piece of a very old puzzle," Hoovian said. "Whatever it is about you that allowed the imp to possess you, I can use that to help solve a crisis that threatens both our world and that of the demons. And perhaps undo a great deal of damage."

"Huh," Harry said.

Hoovian sighed. "What is it?"

"No, nothing, I guess." Harry glanced at Daphne. "Usually I don't figure out the new professor is using me for his dark schemes until after Christmas."

Hoovian slammed his palm into the chalkboard, the clap echoing out across the castle grounds. "Let me make you a deal then, Potter. Help me figure this out, and I'll help you kill the Dark Lord Voldemort."

* * *

"I don't think a professor should be helping you _kill_ anyone, Harry," Hermione said.

"Have you ever read about what Hoovian's saying?" Harry asked, leaning his head against Hermione's shoulder on the broad leather couch in his room, overlooking the lake as the sun set. "The Garden of Shadows? The Brutality?"

Hermione shrugged against his ear. "The garden is ringing a very faint bell," she said.

Harry yawned. "I don't trust him. Professor Hoovian."

"Well, no, you shouldn't. You've known him a day and he's offered to help you commit murder."

Harry frowned and sat up. "You know the prophecy, Hermione."

Hermione bit her lip and, Harry realised with some surprise, fought back on tears.

"Eh," he said. "Hermione, I'm sorry I didn't—"

"Oh, stop it," she said with a sniff. "It's not your fault. As you say, I know the prophecy. It's just a great deal to ask of you—of us all, really, but you the most."

A heavy silence fell between them. Harry took a moment to pour them both some tea from the steaming pot on the coffee table.

"I'll do the research, as usual," Hermione eventually said, kicking her feet up onto the edge of the table and hugging her knees. "You ignore it and get us into a life or death situation, OK?"

Harry gave her a rough hug as a tawny owl landed on the moss-covered chulations outside the window and tapped to be let in. With a flick of his wand, Harry opened the window and the owl alighted on Hermione's shoulder, offering her a letter.

She broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment.

"It's from Justin," she said, spots of colour blooming in her cheeks. "He's invited me—well, us—to a gathering in Hogsmeade in about an hour. At the Three Broomsticks. Do you want to go?"

Harry yawned and shrugged. "Do you?"

"Well, I... hmm, yes."

"Then I'll walk with you," he said, glancing out over the lake as the sun dipped behind the western mountains, girdling Hogwarts in pre-night shadow. "I'd worry if you walked alone."

Hermione squeezed his hand. "'A world full of demons for the sake of an angel'," she said.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. An old poem, you heroic hero you."

* * *

The Three Broomsticks was packed to the rafters when Harry and Hermione slipped in, kicking the trail dust from their heels, and squeezing through the throngs of Hogsmeade residents to find one of the corner booths full of the Hogwarts' apprentices.

Two steins of butterbeer appeared and Harry clinked with his fellow students before squeezing into the booth. He let Hermione sit next to Justin, who seemed happy to see her.

"Alright, Harry?" Colin Creevey asked.

"Staying out of trouble, mate, yeah. Busy in here tonight."

Harry noticed with a scarcely concealed grimace that Malfoy and his cohort sat a few tables over, huddled together in whispered conversation. Malfoy caught Harry staring and sneered at him, before muttering something to Theodore Nott that caused his table to snigger and drew all eyes on him. Harry didn't know the names of the other two people seated at Malfoy's table, but they looked familiar—Slytherins, he thought, who had graduated a year or two ago.

"Table full of wannabe Death Eaters," he muttered and returned to his drink, unwilling to let their presence spoil the evening.

The evening wore on and Harry felt himself drifting from the conversations around him, stifling more than a few yawns. Hermione and Justin spoke animatedly, the sights and sounds of the pub dancing happily in her eyes, about some obscure transfiguration theory, which left Harry yawning into his stein.

He excused himself to the bathroom and splashed his face with water in the sink, looking at his reflection as if seeing a stranger—his wild hair had sprouted weeds that were almost curls, in desperate need of a trim, and heavy suitcases had been left on the belt beneath his eyes.

He was alone in the bathroom, but the door to one of the three stalls creaked open on wooden hinges and Harry—switching from tired to alert in a heartbeat—drew his wand. The stall door swayed on its creaky hinges, revealing a space empty save for the porcelain toilet.

Harry sighed and relaxed, turning back to the sink.

A wand appeared in the air between the stall and the sink and, like silk curtains parting, an invisibility cloak fell away to reveal a tall, hooded figure in a silver mask with snake-like eye slits.

"_Stupefy_," the Death Eater growled.

The curse took Harry in the back, slammed his face into the mirror, which shattered a moment quicker than his consciousness.

* * *

Harry awoke to a splitting headache and a hard ache in his shoulders which, he realised a moment later, came from being strapped to a heavy wooden chair, his hands secured behind his back. Additional bindings secured his ankles to the legs of the chair.

_That's odd_, he thought, groggy, and shook his head to clear it.

He was in a poorly lit room—a dungeon of slick stone walls covered in creeping mould, blooms of white fungus, with a single, pale torch of faint blue flame casting a dire pall on the stone.

"Is anyone there?" he asked, and was surprised at the anger in his voice.

He strained against the bonds, found he could move a little, and rocked the chair back and forth an inch trying to free his hands and legs.

Harry strained his ears, listening for anything, but only heard his heart beating in his ears and, faintly, the drip-drip-drip of water.

"Death Eaters... Bloody Death Eaters..." he muttered. He had no idea how long he'd been knocked out, or how long he'd been tied to the chair—the ache in his shoulders suggested at least an hour—but his thoughts turned to Malfoy's table in the Three Broomsticks, the two older blokes with the slick-haired little shit who had been smirking at—

The door to the dungeon, concealed in the shadows, swung open on rusted iron hinges and a Death Eater swept into the room, the silver mask reflecting the dull flame from above.

"Which one are you then?" Harry growled. "Bunch of cowards hiding behind—"

The Death Eater flicked his wand and Harry's cheek stung with a slap. He bared his teeth and chuckled.

"Malfoy? That you under there? That slap was weaker than—"

A second flick of the Death Eater's wand and a wave of force slammed into Harry, knocking him back, and his chair toppled. He landed hard on his back, his shoulders burning, and cursed.

""The Dark Lord awaits, Potter. We shall talk when you have had some time to think," the Death Eater whispered, and left the room.

Harry muttered to himself and tried to relax the pressure on his shoulders. To his surprise, the wood beneath him splintered and he rolled his arms over the break in the frame.

"Huh," he said. "That's something."

Two minutes later, Harry had managed to work his bound hands around the frame of the chair, bending and snapping one of the legs, until his fingers were able to reach the knots binding his ankles to the chair front. It took some finagling, but he got one knot, then the other, and slipped his hands under his feet. His burning shoulders screamed in relief.

He stood and examined the rope binding his wrists. Thin, silvery rope that left his hands free for a wand, if he had one. He checked his back pocket to see if the Death Eater was as incompetent as he hoped, but he was wandless.

"Not to worry, not to worry..."

Harry considered his options and tried the door. Again, to his surprise, he found it unlocked and stepped out into a corridor similar to the dungeon. A set of spiralling stairs at the far end seemed better lit, so he headed that way, minding his footsteps and dodging puddles of stagnant water.

He scaled the stairs as swiftly as he dared, knowing if he ran into anyone he was in trouble without a wand, and reached what he assumed was the ground floor beyond an arched wooden door. Contemplating his options again, he shrugged and slowly turned the iron handle, pulling the door open an inch to peak out into...

...a kitchen. A large, opulent kitchen of marble benchtops, vast hearths, wood-fired ovens, and an array of sinks with gleaming pots. Beyond the sinks, windows looked out on the grounds of an unfamiliar forest under a starry night sky.

Harry wondered if it was the same night he had been taken on. Out of the window he spied a group of hooded figures around a cauldron of green flame, and decided not to head out of the back door and into their path.

He chose to go left, into an atrium of pillared columns and a commanding, grand staircase that led up to both an east and west wing of whatever building—a pureblood mansion, was his guess—he was in.

Not wanting to hang around and find out, Harry tried the ornate doors in the atrium and, less surprising, found them locked and barred. He tried to force the iron bar but—whether magically secured or simply too heavy—he couldn't budge it.

Feeling exposed with the open balconies and hallways above, Harry made a quick decision and dashed up the marble stairs, heading west to his north, and proceeded with care along the open corridor. Light shone from a room ahead on his right, and he caught the edge of muffled conversation.

He approached with care, mindful that whoever was in the room—_hell, it might be Voldemort himself, the Dark Lord would be a'waitin' somewhere_—was unlikely to be a friend.

The door stood ajar, giving Harry a glimpse of a personal study library, lit warmly from crackling wooden logs in a large, cast-iron fireplace framed in marble. The walls were lined with old books, magical tomes, and two Death Eaters—one a foot taller than the other, perhaps Malfoy and his father—stood in discussion between a fine leather couch and a stern mahogany desk complete with owl perch and expensive-looking writing supplies.

A glass doorway to an exterior balcony stood open behind the desk, which from Harry's perspective seemed to be built back into a hillside. He could leap the stone wall and hit the ground running, disappearing into the night, but he'd be seen if he tried it now.

He strained his ears to listen in on the conversation in the room.

"The Dark Lord shall be here within the hour," the taller Death Eater said, his voice low and husky—Harry didn't recognise it.

"He'll surely kill the boy," the other Death Eater—and a woman—said. Too much sanity in her tone to be Bellatrix.

"And good riddance. We'll be elevated to his inner circle for this. I intend to leverage that at the Ministry, perhaps something at the Department of Mysteries."

The female Death Eater nodded and held up a lacquered, wooden box about the size of a thick book. "And this?"

"A prize beyond even the Potter boy to the Dark Lord. He will use it to topple the incompetent. With that, even the dementors of Azkaban will bend to his command."

Harry frowned, scowling at the box. The two Death Eaters began to move, which forced Harry back a few steps and he ducked into an alcove, hiding in the shadows, as they moved past him and back toward the atrium.

Harry slipped into the study library, seizing his chance. He looked around for anything that would give him some indication of where he was, who he was captured by, but didn't linger. If Voldemort was on his way then...

On the large desk, resting on the green-leather writing pad, Harry found his wand.

He snatched it up between his bound hands with a grin and dashed through the open window doors onto the balcony, out into the clear night air, intending to make for the forest at the top of the hill.

He paused.

Thinking on that damned box the female Death Eater had been carrying.

_A prize beyond even the Potter boy..._

He hesitated only a moment, cursed himself for a fool, and headed back inside the opulent mansion.

Working his way back along the path that had led him into the upper reaches of the house, Harry caught sight of the two Death Eaters descending the steps toward the kitchen. He wagered they were going to join their cohort outside in the garden, surrounding the green flame fire and cauldron.

Without any plan, other than he wanted that special box, Harry set about giving chase. He tip-toed back through the atrium, into the kitchen, in time to see the back door swing shut and the two Death Eaters carrying the Dark Lord's prize join the four or five others around the cauldron in the garden. Flickering green flame lit up the hedges and trees, and bathed the old stone walkways in a sickly light far too reminiscent of the killing curse.

"Right..." Harry said. "Six against one, and my hands are tied.' He tried to angle his wand to cut the bindings, but couldn't get it. He cursed softly to himself and looked around for options.

A large pantry stood ajar, and within Harry spotted a collection of potions ingredients that would make old Severus Snape blush. Working around the edges of a bad idea, Harry slipped into the pantry to see what was in stock—he scanned the shelves, identifying most of the common bits and bobs, powders and dried appendages. Bezoar stones, abraxan hair, glowstone dust... glassed dragonfly wings, and so on.

He swept his gaze along the top shelf and found something useful, something that made him think of Daphne. A slow, steady grin settled on Harry's face. He collected the ingredient and carried it between his arm and his side with a great deal of care.

Harry let himself out into the warm night air, clinging the shadows and mindful of the cauldron flames reflecting in his eyes or the lenses of his glasses. He crept as close as he dared, until he could hear the muffled conversation of the Death Eaters, laughing and joking amongst themselves, to within about fifteen feet.

Crouched on his haunches behind a bank of green hedge, his head just peaking over the manicured brim of green leaves, Harry whispered a levitation charm on his stolen potion ingredient and sent it up into the air above all their heads.

Slowly and carefully, a curved shadow against the ceiling of stars and a crescent of moon, the ingredient floated silently through the air. Hoping he was judging the angle and the wind right, Harry levitated it into the curls of smoke rising from the large cauldron surrounded by Death Eaters.

"What is that—?" one of the Death Eaters barked.

Harry broke the levitation charm.

The erumpent horn dropped from the sky and hit the cauldron dead-on, splashing boiling potion into the air. The horn itself ruptured a moment later, spiling its deadly fluid into the brew. Whatever they were making, beef stew or poison gas, Harry didn't care.

Thinking fond thoughts of Seamus Finnigan, Harry delighted in the explosion that followed. The cauldron ruptured and spewed a violent mass of sizzling liquid into the Death Eaters, who were knocked back in the blast wave and sent rolling like ragdolls through the garden.

Harry was already moving, his sights set on the pair of Death Eaters from upstairs, and the lacquered box that now lay between them. He ran in and snatched up the box, hopping over buddles of burning green potion, as the confused and frightened screams from the Death Eaters turned angry.

He dashed toward the forest bordering the property, ducking behind hedges and large potted trees. Behind him the Death Eaters were gathering themselves, wands alighting and casting spheres of pure sunlight into the air to light up the garden.

He felt a target settle on his back, and soon wicked arcs of curse light began to cut the air around Harry, smashing pots and blasting the hedges apart. He ducked and dived and ran for the forest, where he could disappear.

A beam of curse light hot enough to singe the hair from his ears rocketed past and slammed into a tree on the forest's edge. The tree groaned, splintered, and fell into Harry's path. A tangle of branches and leaves clawed at him, slowed him down.

"Shit," he whispered, fumbling with the box and his tied hands.

"After him, you fools!" a harsh voice cried.

Harry made it into the safety of the trees, shadows once again hiding him from sight and errant, angry spellwork. He leapt over gnarled and knotted roots, zipping in no clear direction into the forest, only wanting to put some cover between himself and the Death Eaters.

His breath came in hurried gasps and his heart beat louder than a drum in his ears.

But he'd made it.

Harry didn't slow down, but he did try and mask his footfalls landing too loudly. Wherever he was, the forest was old, without path or marker, and he worried—a small worry, nowhere near the top of his list—that he'd never find his way out again.

"One thing at a time..." he muttered.

He shifted the lacquered box, which was lighter than he expected, under one arm so he could better grip his wand between the rope binding his wrists, and slowed his pace to listen for the sounds of pursuit.

Whether a trick of the thick forest or something more malicious, he heard nothing, not a sound, as if a pair of earmuffs had been pressed hard against the sides of his head.

He took a turn in the forest, slipped between a gap in two trees, and found himself back in the mansion's garden.

Harry's eyes widened and he stepped hastily back into the forest. He saw Death Eaters quenching the flames from the cauldron, and wondered how in the hell he'd gotten turned around enough to work his way back to the mansion.

Harry turned and headed back into the forest, but headed west toward the moon this time and kept to as straight a path as possible, leaving the mansion behind.

A few minutes later, as he hopped over a small creek, Harry stepped around a large evergreen and found himself once again the garden surrounding the Death Eater mansion.

"Right," he said, knowing full well he hadn't circled back. "This is some magical bullshit."

"Indeed," whispered a rough voice behind him. "_Stupefy!"_

Harry spun quick enough to catch the curse in the face.

* * *

Harry awoke to a splitting headache and a hard ache in his shoulders which, he realised a moment later, came from being strapped to a heavy wooden chair, his hands secured behind his back. Additional bindings secured his ankles to the legs of the chair.

"Oh great..." he muttered.

He wasn't in the dungeon this time—he was up in the fine and rich study library where he'd spied the Death Eaters and the mystery box. The warm fireplace sat at his back, casting his shadow ahead of him against the leather couch.

Upon that couch sat Professor Mathias Hoovian and Daphne Greengrass.

"Evening," Harry said slowly, and the nagging sense that he'd been a bit of a hasty fool whispered in the back of his mind.

"Erumpent fluid... into an unknown cauldron. What on earth were you thinking?" Daphne asked, crossing one leg over the other. She wore, Harry noticed, the robes of a Death Eater.

Hoovian was in one of his nicely tailored suits. "I was told you were inventive, Potter, but I must say that surprised me."

"What the hell is going on?" Harry growled. He spied the lacquered mystery box on the mahogany desk and strained against his bindings.

"This was a test, Harry," Hoovian said carefully. "Consider what happened this evening an... induction to your apprenticeship."

"You stunned me," Harry said. "Twice."

"I wanted to see what you'd do," Hoovian said, leaning forward on the couch and clapping his hands together. "This is my home, by the way. You are in Bulgaria."

Harry blinked. "No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

Daphne rolled her eyes and tapped her foot impatiently against the hardwood floors. "Potter, you most definitely are."

Harry considered, then nodded. "Does Dumbledore know you've kidnapped me?"

"I told him I'd be providing tutelage to you here tonight, yes."

"I imagine the nitty-gritty details of tonight's lesson—"

"You passed the test, Harry." Hoovian grinned. "I'd heard the stories, but stories are embellished, often exaggerated. But here you are—you had every opportunity to escape, but you chose to stand and fight for whatever was in that box."

Hoovian stood and walked around the desk. He undid the clasp on the lacquered box and lifted the lid. From within, he withdrew a ripe red apple and took a bite.

"I feel like this was all a bit..." He paused.

"Elaborate?" Daphne offered, casting Hoovian a wry grin. "Me too."

"You should have really figured it out a lot quicker," Hoovian remarked. "Honestly, Harry, you wake up and you weren't bound magically, you escaped far too easily, and then just happened to stumble upon the conversation you needed to hear?"

"So... no Death Eaters?"

"No."

"Voldemort isn't on his way."

"I surely hope not."

Harry considered all that, then chuckled. "Well I hope I didn't burn any of your friends too badly," he said. "With that little cauldron trick."

"The robes absorbed the worst of it," Hoovian said. "Though replacing what you destroyed won't be cheap."

"Well, shit. Send me a bill. I'll get right on it."

Hoovian grunted and swept from the room, and Harry didn't know whether he was angry or impressed. He was left alone with Daphne leaning against the couch. She stared at him for a long moment, making Harry squirm, and then stood.

Daphne stepped slowly across the room, tossing a small clear-glass bauble from hand to hand.

"I failed his little tests the first time," she said, glaring down at him.

Then she kissed him, quick and soft.

"Well done, Harry."

Daphne slipped the bauble into her coat pocket and left the room. Harry let a good two minutes pass in the warmth of the fire trying to figure _that_ _one_ out, before remembering he was still tied to the chair.

* * *

**NEXT UPDATE 15-JAN-20.**

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	5. The Tempest Door

**A/N:** A longer chapter to make up for my absence - some interesting developments in this one.

* * *

**Chapter Five** **\- The Tempest Door**

Over breakfast the next morning, sitting in window shafts of forest-dappled sunlight, Harry refused to apologise to Professor Hoovian's guests for setting them on fire the previous evening.

Most of them took this in stride, save for a burly-looking chap with burn salve on his forehead where his eyebrows used to be. He glared menacingly while cradling a mug of harsh black coffee, bitter on the nose.

"In Harry's defence," Daphne said, having chosen to sit next to Harry, a possessive hand on his shoulder, "you were meant to be a Death Eater, Walter. I mean, what did you expect?"

"No, no defence," Walter said, wagging his finger across the table. "Mathias—where is Mathias?—will be paying us extra for this nonsense."

The other three people, save the strange man at the head of the elongated dining table adjacent to the kitchen and overlooking the garden Harry had set ablaze last night, murmured agreement at that.

Daphne frowned. "You accept the job, you accept the risk. You all know this, yes? You're just sore he got past you so easily."

A lady with flowing red hair to her waist, sharp yellow eyes that reminded Harry of a cat, laughed into her napkin.

"Something to add, Chell?" Walter growled.

"While I share your desire for coin, I am just so... _pleased_ that the Boy Who Lived is everything the legends say he is, and more." She inclined her head. "Mr Potter, Harry, unlike most men you do not disappoint."

Harry fought a blush—he found Chell almost regal in how attractive she was, sitting tall in a warm green turtleneck jumper, her nails a bright blood-red. Harry put her somewhere in her thirties.

Daphne dug her nails into Harry's shoulder before letting him go. He considered looking at her sideways, but that seemed like a bold move, and she hadn't mentioned the kiss from last night at all. He felt quite out of his depth and was pretending he wasn't.

"Were you scared, Potter?" asked the thin wizard sitting at the end of the table, a curl of wispy beard dangling from his chin. He carried the gaunt, blistered look of a lifelong gin-addled madman, but when he spoke—just a whisper—his voice carried well and seemed to dampen the ambient noise in the dining room, like snow at midnight.

"No," Harry said, meeting his yellowed eyes. "More... annoyed."

The man held his gaze for a moment and then took a sip of some misty concoction in a clear-glass crystal flute. He had killed the conversation, it seemed, and even surly Walter sunk back in on himself, a bead of burn salve dripping down his cheek.

"Who are you to make things so ominous then?" Harry asked.

The thin man wheezed—no, laughed. "My name is Heritage Sea."

Daphne returned her hand to Harry—his forearm, shaking her head—but Heritage Sea thumped his glass goblet against the table.

"Miss Greengrass, leave him!"

Daphne snapped back in her chair as if slapped.

The other two 'Death Eaters', even beautiful Chell, looked away, suddenly interested in folded eggs and ricotta smeared bacon, in bitter coffee and pulpy orange juice.

Harry sighed and settled his cutlery back on his plate. "Let me guess, you're actually a reformed Death Eater? It wasn't just an act?"

"No, nothing so crass," Heritage muttered.

Harry nodded. "Oh, OK—"

"I was merely the caretaker for the Dark Lord Voldemort's soul-shard in the forests of Albania during his exile."

Harry considered that a moment and then stood, the legs of his wooden chair scraping loudly against the marble-swirled floor.

"Harry, please—" Daphne began.

"Voldemort killed my parents," Harry said, without scorn or malice, without kindness. "So he could then kill me." He picked up half an English muffin and scraped a thin crust of butter across the toasted surface. "Tell me, Heritage, why you would aid that snake-faced old man?"

Heritage Sea considered his crystal flute and then shrugged. "As for snake-faced old men, are we speaking of the Dark Lord, or of the headmaster that has placed you in similar life or death situations since you learnt of your fame?"

Harry blinked at that.

Professor Mathias Hoovian strolled into the kitchen, summoned Harry's muffin wandlessly, and took a crunchy bite. He tossed it back and Harry caught it along the buttery edge.

"Let me guess," Hoovian said. "Walter is angry and wants paying, Chell is commanding the room with her beauty, and Mr Sea is revelling in his dark and sordid past." He paused and pointed a finger broken more than once at Daphne. "Who has said the most stupid thing this morning?"

Daphne crossed her arms over her chest. "That remains to be seen." She nudged Harry. "My money is on this one before too long."

Hoovian chuckled and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He withdrew a pouch of coins that shouldn't have fit the pocket and tossed it at Walter.

"Coins for your burns, Walt," he said. "Chell, name your price. Heritage, do not try and assuage your guilt for fostering a broken monstrosity on the one soul that has suffered him the most. History does not repeat, but it does rhyme. You're old enough to know that."

Heritage Sea scowled and, with a grimace that turned his gaunt face into a skull—Harry genuinely saw a skull until he blinked—disappeared in a swirled curl of something akin to apparition.

"Forgive him, Harry, if that's your way," Hoovian said. "He regrets his part in the last decade of events that led to today, but Heritage is perhaps the world's foremost authority on a distinct branch of magic—forestry magic. We don't know why, or how, but canopies in the old forests seem to preserve spells and enchantments longer than they should. Heritage is the architect of that delightful loop that kept you from getting lost or assaulted by fae-demons last night. His overseeing the wraith of the Dark Lord was… an academic pursuit."

Harry took a seat. _Fae-demons?_ "I'm over this kidnapping, when are we going back to Hogwarts?"

Hoovian poured himself a cup of that bitter, black coffee and contemplated his drink. "There's a job I'd like you all—"

Harry stood again. "I'll walk then—find a way through your enchanted looping forest. Thanks for the toast."

"Sit," Daphne said and Harry looked at her. She pulled on his sleeve. "For me."

Harry sat.

Professor Hoovian frowned at that interaction and cleared his throat. "As I was saying, these lovely people are not here just to try and fool you, Harry. Last night was a test—one you passed rather loudly, if without grace."

"Who's Grace?" he asked.

"Easy money," Daphne muttered.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and decided it was his turn to scowl.

Professor Hoovian went on. "How would you like to commit some magical crime this evening, Harry, in Bulgaria's capital—Sofia?"

Harry considered that. "No, thank you."

"If it helps, the only victim of this thrilling caper is a wizarding crime lord known to traffic in dark and illegal artefacts, in magical creatures, and dabbles in human trafficking. Dragan Bruxo."

Harry shrugged. He'd never heard the name. "What do you need me for? Are we to fight this man?"

"Steal from him," Chell said. "Intercept something he intends to gift to the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Now that got Harry's attention, which he knew was the point, but still... "No, thanks. I don't want any part of your schemes or crimes or whatever. I've got enough to deal with, honestly."

"If it helps," Daphne said, "I'm assisting in the scheme, and I shall be wearing a lovely green dress, and I shall be dancing with you at the party this evening where all of this is meant to happen."

"OK I'm in."

* * *

In the heart of Sofia stood the grand and opulent Saint Aleksander Nevski Cathedral—a broad and tall building, complete with weather-bleached green and golden domed towers. In the cobblestone courtyard out front of the cathedral, a long red carpet had been unfurled and impossibly beautiful people in fine evening wear were making their way inside.

Harry walked with Daphne on his arm, wearing a tuxedo in the muggle style, but with a tailored pocket for his wand on the left side of the jacket. He felt awkward, out of place, staring down at his reflection in black shoes shined to a mirror bright.

Daphne, in the promised green dress, her silver hair curled in gentle waves, seemed entirely at ease, smiling and nodding as they ascended the red carpet adorning the steps of the cathedral and entered the commanding building just on sunset. She wore a delicate red-ruby on a gold thread around her neck, nestled in the hollow below her throat.

"I like that gemstone," Harry said.

"Thank you, Harry," she replied.

Within the grand cathedral, the pews had been cleared or transfigured into circular dining tables, three dozen of them, draped in fine white linen cloths, and burdened with even finer china plates and glassware. Several hundred people already mingled in the cathedral, below the golden walls and pillared columns, framed by the impressive stained glass and artwork on the walls.

Warmth and merriment flowed across the space. On the altar, a band played classical music, upbeat and friendly, and couples danced in the space between the stage and the tables. Dozens of wait staff carried trays of drinks, sparkling wines and champagnes, along with canapes. Harry felt himself in a ballroom reserved for a royal wedding.

Above them all floated thousands of candles, and magical sprites—little lights like glowing snow—darted between the candles, casting the whole space in an intimately dim ambience.

"Well," Harry said. "This is nice."

"First time at one of these things?" Daphne asked, still holding his arm. Her scent was peaches and lilac, just enough to taste, and her lips were purple. "Oh I forget, you were muggle-raised, yes?"

Harry bristled. "Is that a dig at me?"

"Not at all," Daphne replied. "Now let's get to work."

Once Harry had agreed to take part in Professor Hoovian's caper, he had spent the day with Walter, Chell, and Heritage Sea at Hoovian's manor being looped in on just what and who they were planning to rob that evening.

Dragan Bruxo was a Bulgarian wizard, once considered as a potential Minister for Magic, and indeed, some argued, the real power in the Bulgarian magical community rested with him—to those who knew the true turning of the world, Hoovian had said, to those who knew the difference between power and fear.

"There's a difference between having authority," the professor said, contemplating a glass of dark red wine, "and being an authority. Bruxo understands that difference very well."

Bruxo ran a criminal syndicate that stretched across Europe and into the United Kingdom. He had his influential hand in all sorts of nefarious and miserable crime, but dealt primarily in magical artefacts and rare—illegal—potions.

Harry and Daphne's role in the mission that evening was simple—at least, it seemed simple to Harry. They were to attend this fancy party and make friends with Bruxo's daughter, who would be hosting a private after party later that evening at Bruxo's fortified apartments on the western edge of Sofia. The wards and magical security on Bruxo's home were world class—impenetrable. Harry and Daphne were to be invited in and disable the protections from the inside—break the ward stone, known to be in Bruxo's office, which would allow Hoovian and the others to enter and commit the actual crime.

"Do you see her?" Harry asked.

Daphne scanned the crowds, all smiles, and shook her head. "No, I do not, but she's meant to be about our age. I met her once years ago. She attends Durmstrang, which is how Hoovian knows as much as he does... keep an eye out for teenagers."

A tray of mini-cheeseburgers on cocktail skewers idled on past and Harry grabbed himself a handful. "You want one?" he asked.

"No, too greasy," Daphne said. "Do you need a napkin?"

"Now that was definitely a dig," Harry said, but it didn't stop him eating his little cheeseburgers.

The evening wore on and Harry mingled with Daphne, enjoyed having her close, and almost forgot he was on a mission—she told him about her favourite subjects at Hogwarts, how the Slytherins threw darts at a picture of his face in their common room, and how she hoped to undertake further study after their seventh year.

"I hope to make it to our seventh year," Harry quipped, and she laughed, but not with her eyes.

A few people Daphne seemed to know, passing familiar, said hello, and the only people Harry knew—Chell and Walter—sat at one of the tables, ignoring them by design. Walter's eyebrows had been regrown, at least, though the tip of his nose still seemed a little singed.

"There," Harry said. "That's got to be them."

A group of teens danced together on the dance floor, and one of them—a tall girl with brown hair in a black dress, seemed to hold the attention of the rest. She was on the arm of an even taller boy, stubbly and handsome, and they swayed at ease on the busy dance floor. The band played a simple tune, high and slow.

"That's her," Daphne confirmed. "I met her years ago... but yes, that's her."

"Right then," Harry said. "Let's go say hello."

He stepped forward and Daphne pulled him back. "Don't be an idiot—that's not how it works. She needs to learn that we're here. Or, more particularly, that you are here. Who you are will draw their attention. We don't approach them."

"Why not?"

Daphne cursed softly. "It's just... not the way. Trust me."

Harry considered, then nodded. "Sure, this is your world, not mine."

"It's why we've spent the last hour introducing you to the right people. Word will get around that the _Boy Who Lived_ is make a rare appearance in high society. This is why Hoovian wanted you here."

"I get it," Harry said. "So what do we do in the mean time?" He chose to be bold. "We could kiss again?"

"Kiss?" Daphne said, a knowing smile playing about her lips, "I don't recall any kiss, Harry."

"Last night. I was tied to a chair."

Daphne took his hand. "Dance with me—that will at least put us closer, perhaps within earshot."

Out on the dance floor, Harry managed a shuffle that felt two parts awkward for every part not stepping on Daphne's feet. He held a hand on her hip and his other in hers. She led without making it seem like she was leading, silver curls bouncing on her shoulders, and reminded him more than once to stop staring at both Bruxo's daughter and at his shoes.

"So... want to grab a butterbeer sometime when we're back at Hogwarts?" he asked, swaying to the music as best he could.

Daphne almost snorted and blinked a whole bunch, caught off guard. She settled on a grin. "Finally, he asks. Took you all day to work up the courage, hmm? Never mind, Potter, you're not my type."

Harry nodded. "Right. Not getting confusing signals here at all. Nope."

"Don't you have a murderous madman out to kill you? What if I get attached just as you take a killing curse to the face? No, better not to take the chance."

"Well I'm not planning on getting murdered," Harry said. "And I've shrugged off the killing curse before."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Few are planning on it."

"OK, point." He sighed.

"Stop staring at Bruxo's daughter."

"Sorry."

"Again, we're just to watch and make friends with Carla Bruxo. Let her make friends with us," Daphne said, "and get invited to the after party back at Bruxo's home. We don't want to actually meet the man himself."

A heavy hand fell on Harry's shoulder and he stopped shuffling with Daphne. He looked up at a man with a face of harsh lines, broken and disappointed angles, a roadmap of hard fights, who spoke in broken English with a Bulgarian accent, "Mr Potter, good evening to you. Mr Bruxo would like to invite you and your... friend... to his table. Yes, please, now?"

Daphne squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt.

"I..." Harry paused. "I mean, we're dancing here, mate."

Another man appeared, as bulky and intimidating as the first, in the same suit. "Please, his table, yes."

Without asking, the two goons nudged Harry and Daphne off the dance floor, away from Carla Bruxo, her boyfriend, and their gaggle of friends, and into the sea of tables full of people laughing, drinking, joking. He saw Chell in a purple dress, her red hair tied high, give him a warning look, and sighed.

Dragan Bruxo sat at a table apart from the main hive of diners, a larger table in one of the chapels and unique in that it was rectangular as opposed to round, like the head table at a wedding. He was a handsome man, Harry thought, and looked younger than expected. Honestly, Harry had been expecting a muggle-style gangster in a pin-striped suit, grown fat over the years. Dragan Bruxo did wear a suit, but it was formal, and he held the table with an easy smile below blue eyes and short-cut brown hair.

All in all, for a man who profited off the misery of others, Harry had expected... less. Something uglier and lacking in charisma.

The rest of the table noted Harry and Daphne's arrival and Bruxo threw open his arms with a laugh and stood. "Ah, special guests!" he exclaimed. "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Daphne Greengrass, here on behalf of her old and noble family, and her plus one... Mr Harry Potter."

The table gasped at that and descended into familiar mutters. He saw eyes flicking up to his hairline, searching for the scar. Harry ran a hand back through his hair and gave them all a glimpse.

"Had I known you were attending, Miss Greengrass, and with such an... intriguing plus one, I would have extended a seat at my table earlier."

Daphne hesitated and then cleared her throat. Harry watched her change, shoulders back, chin raised, and suddenly he was looking at a girl who had been born pureblood, who had attended these kind of events her entire life. "Mr Bruxo, it is a pleasure to meet you, and of course we accept your invitation. It is both my and Harry's good fortune that our studies this summer brought us to Bulgaria. We are honoured to be invited to your table."

"Yeah, studies," Harry said, and felt the glare behind Daphne's perfect smile.

Bruxo clapped his hands together. "Make room, my friends. Two more chairs! We shall drink and be merry, and Harry Potter will tell us of the Dark Lords he has felled, the tournaments he was won, the monsters he has slain, and," Bruxo placed his arm around Harry and sat him in the chair next to his, winking at Daphne, "the beautiful women he has known, yes? Bring us Firewhisky!"

* * *

Harry thought he understood decadence.

He had, after all, spent years attending feasts in the Great Hall—meats dripping with fat and gravy, maple-glazed carrots and others vegetables of whatever was in season (and, often, given magic, far from season), puddings and desserts as rich as the mighty pureblood families combined...

The foods delivered to Dragan Bruxo's table that evening put every dish Harry had ever eaten... not to shame... but on notice. He experienced a level of food beyond simple decadence.

He ate a net of spun gold made of sharp pork floss suspended above a cloud of visceral beef cheek, paired with a knife of sharp grilled asparagus, each bite striking a gentle yet firm bolt on his tongue. He sipped Firewhisky while a dessert of pure blueberry sparks infused with a turbulent cheesecake danced between his teeth.

Harry had eaten magically prepared food.

Harry had never eaten food where magic was a core ingredient.

The evening wore on and he spent most of it with Bruxo's arm around his shoulders, laughing and joking and clinking glasses with the crime lord. The man smelt of wood shavings, a pleasant cologne. Daphne kept placing her hand over his glass as the whisky was poured, which at first Harry frowned at, but the look she gave him cascaded harder than any cheesecake, and he bowed to her understanding of this world—its customs and settings, its people.

As Bruxo made a joke to the table at large, laughter cascaded, Daphne hugged him as if they were lovers and whispered harshly in his ear, "You are surrounded by monsters."

"Tell me of your Dark Lord, Harry," Bruxo asked, and although conversation muttered on around the table, Harry was deft enough to know when ears and whispers turned his way. "He is risen to fight against impurity, yes?"

Harry sipped at his first pour of whisky—Daphne let him sip—and frowned. "He is risen to murder."

"Yes, of course, most terrible," Bruxo said, and this provoked a round of laughter from his chamber in the secret chapel. "Have you met my daughter, Harry? There is a party at my apartments this evening—for the young and for the old like me. Would you like to attend? I have many fine whiskies and magical artefacts you would find intriguing."

Daphne leaned forward and, to Harry, displayed an amount of cleavage he found both distracting and entirely against her character. She pressed her breasts against his forearm.

"We would love to attend, Mr Bruxo," she said, catching her wine glass against a vase of flowers and spilling it across the table. "Oh, forgive me!"

Bruxo laughed, and nodded, but not to her face.

Harry, who knew the plan, still fought a frown. He had seen nothing of his allies in this mission tonight since joining Bruxo's table, but he suspected that was by design. They were off book, playing things by ear, but the goal of the original plan did still stand—get to Bruxo's apartment.

As the hour crept to eleven, chasing midnight, Dragan Bruxo led his party back to his apartments overlooking West Park on the edge of Sofia, using a system of portkeys and apparition. Harry and Daphne got to portkey together with Carla Bruxo and her friends, after a swift introduction, and Harry's view switched from old stone to a modern, near-commanding view over the park and river. He swirled into a sleek space, tall glass windows stretching across to the city and water, and beyond a twinkle of lit street-arteries disappearing over the horizon.

He stood in an expansive living area on polished wooden floors with a hundred other guests from the party, still clutching flutes and tumblers of fine liquor, and was surprised to see muggle amenities such as widescreen televisions and CD players against the walls, below fantastic portraits and artwork in the wizarding style.

Daphne laughed in his arms and twirled him amongst the crowds, as if dancing was her only game. The party spread out and music began to blast from the high speakers, loud enough not to dull conversation.

"Listen to me," she whispered into his ear, so close her lips brushed his skin, "we're not safe, we shouldn't be here, and we should leave, but we can still help Hoovian."

Harry let himself be twirled and pulled away, looking into her eyes. He forced himself to smile and gave her a spin on the dance floor, as the music flared and a troop of Bruxo's servants appeared as if by magic with more drink and food.

"Harry Potter!" Carla Bruxo said, grinning and squeezing his arm. "We must dance tonight! And have a photo together!"

Daphne and Harry were absorbed into Carla's group of attractive friends as if they'd known one another for years, and the next half hour was spent yelling over the music and each other, bumping and grinding into one another, which Harry found not altogether unpleasant. A white powder on a silver tray was passed around, and Daphne again declined for them both. There was no pressure from the others, as Daphne's rejection was delivered as delicately as silk flowing over polished glass.

She spoke and expected to be heard.

Just before midnight, as the party swelled into full swing, Daphne whispered something in Carla's ear that made the crime lord's daughter grin. She turned to Harry and smirked.

"Can you help me find the bathroom, Harry?" Daphne asked, loud enough to be heard by a few others—including Carla.

"My room on the second floor, first door on the right, has an en suite," Carla said, leaning in close, a knowing glint in her eye. "The password is '_Thestral_'."

Harry let himself be led from the throng of revellers by Daphne, up the cast-iron spiral staircase to the second floor hallway, which was lined with comfy leather seats occupied by witches and wizards in various states of conversation, inebriation, pawing at one another. A gallery dotted with bookcases and wooden display cabinets overlooked the lounge and dance floor below.

"What was all that about?" Harry asked. "You can find the bathroom on your own, surely."

Daphne _tsk_ed and pulled him along. "It's a good thing you're pretty," she muttered, and reached the door to Carla Bruxo's room. "_Thestral_," she said, and the door opened on its own.

Daphne closed the door behind them as warm candlelight flared to life, revealing a luxurious room, cushioned and blanketed in purple, with grand arched windows leading to a stone terraced balcony.

"I told Carla I wanted somewhere private to… well, never mind what I told her," she said.

Harry's mind raced and he settled on a polite blush.

"I…er… I mean that's—"

"If you were listening this afternoon, her balcony adjoins Bruxo's study, where the ward stone should be," Daphne said. "If we break it, Hoovian and the others should be able to sneak in. Then we can get out of here."

Harry took a moment to catch-up and then nodded. He drew his wand and approached the window. It wasn't magically secured, that he could see, and the lock turned under his hand. He stepped out into the cool night air alongside Daphne, goose bumps rushing up his arms. Daphne shivered. The stone balcony was covered in exotic plants, and a stiff breeze rustled the branches and leaves. Harry, sensing magic, reached out and his fingers brushed against a shield of unyielding air—the wards.

"It's clever magic," Daphne said. "Goblin-wrought. Expensive."

The balcony curved to the left and light shone from the next room across. Through the glass doors Harry glimpsed a mahogany desk, tall shelves full of old tomes, and dozens of weird and wonderful artefacts, clearly ancient and magical, adorning plinths and the mantelpiece of Dragan Bruxo's study.

He tried the handle and wasn't surprised when it didn't budge. He looked to Daphne. "_Alohomora_," he whispered. The handle rattled but the lock didn't turn. "Any ideas?"

Daphne considered the door, tapping her chin in thought, and then shrugged. She turned to the balcony and picked up one of the small plant pots. Harry, guessing her intent, stepped aside as she hurled the plant into the glass door. It shattered the pane with a crash, unlikely to be heard over the party below. Daphne reached through the hole in the glass and unlocked the door from inside.

"After you," she said.

Harry entered the study, struck by the scent of old stone and spice—of books and the stuffy, almost whimsical smell he associated with long, sunny afternoons stuck in _History of Magic_.

"So Hoovian said the ward stone would look like…" He paused, scanning the shelves between the bookcases behind Bruxo's desk. "…that. There, on the top shelf. That ominous glowing orb."

"That must be it, yes," Daphne agreed.

They circled Bruxo's desk, Harry scanned the writings briefly, the furled scrolls and stacks of galleons, disinterested, and approached the quaffle-sized stone which pulsated with a light as sickly green as the killing curse.

"I'll blast it," Harry offered, raising his wand.

Daphne scoffed. "You'll not even scratch it." She reached up to her neck and unclasped her necklace with the fine red ruby gemstone. "Here, a little something… demonic. Goblin magic is strong, but this is stronger."

From the golden setting, Daphne plucked the button-sized ruby and it shone in the dull light, a spark—a flare—of something igniting in its heart. Hesitating only briefly, she reached out and pressed the ruby into the ward stone.

There was a sharp hiss, like logs cracking in the fire, and then the ruby blazed with fire, glowing molten hot, and began to _eat_ into the stone, sinking like a hot knife through butter.

The stone screeched as if alive and Harry winced, shielding his ears. He and Daphne took a healthy step back away from the ward stone, as arcs of wicked green lightning broke away from the orb and cut harsh furrows into the polished oak bookshelves.

The stone cracked down the middle and the light faded. Briefly, out of the window, Harry saw a flash of rippling red light dissipate beyond the balcony. The wards had failed.

"Bruxo's security will know we did that soon enough," Daphne said. She reached into the ward stone and collected the ruby, which seemed undamaged and cool to the touch. "We should make our escape. Back stairs, as planned."

"What is that thing?" Harry asked, nodding at Daphne's ruby necklace.

"A… gift, after a kind," she said. "Unfocused this gem will burn hotter than dragon's fire until dawn._"_

A familiar pop of apparation had Harry spinning on the spot, wand at the ready. Professor Mathias Hoovian stood tall in dark robes, wand drawn, and grinned at them both.

"Well done," he said. "I'd begun to worry you'd been swept up in the party. Or in your case, Harry, sold to the Dark Lord."

"Where are the others?" Daphne asked.

"Distracting the hired wands," Hoovian said, scanning the room. He admired a stone tablet of ancient runes above the fireplace. "Heritage grew something special out in the street. Which means you two are to help me find the artefact. I'll cast the diagnostic charms, but what I'm looking for—what Bruxo has promised the Dark Lord—is a band of dull metal, about the width of a crown. Indeed, it once was a crown. You'll know it when you see it. Check the collections in that glass case over there."

Daphne did as instructed. Harry kept an eye on the door and folded his arms, his wand sticking up toward the ceiling. "Are you going to tell me what this crown is for?"

"As I said earlier, no, not until we have it." Tentacles of sparkling blue magic, like mist, flowed from Hoovian's wand and darted between the furniture, highlighting various objects and settling on the clearly magical items. "Search, Potter, search well. We have minutes only."

One of those minutes later Hoovian growled in frustration. "Well, it's not here."

"What's that on the bookcase?" Daphne asked. One of the tendrils of blue mist had settled around a heavy old tome on the third shelf. It covered the book and shone brighter, like a beacon.

"That," Hoovian said, "is a secret." He swept across the room and pushed on the heavy old leather volume.

Harry blinked as the book sank into the shelf and the entire case slid aside on silent rails to reveal a warmly lit corridor.

"Neat," he said, as Hoovian's blue mist seeped down the secret pathway. "So it's some sort of secret revealing charm then?"

"Something like that," Hoovian muttered, staring down the corridor. "This… may not be pretty. Stay behind me, the both of you."

Harry, who had up until that moment felt excited, even adventurous, sensed a shift in the tension of the room. For a wonder, he did as he was told and fell in on Hoovian's left, Daphne on the right. He stepped into the hidden corridor and the air changed, grew colder.

The corridor was carpeted over old stone, brackets on the wall lit the way in the absence of windows, and he followed Hoovian at a trepid pace. Time was short, precious seconds bleeding away, but that didn't seem as important as it did a moment ago. Something… was amiss.

It wasn't a very long secret corridor, as it curved away from the study and deeper into the apartments, though there were no other entrance or exit points that Harry could see. At the end was an opulent space no larger than Harry's shared dormitory back in Gryffindor Tower.

With Hoovian's blue mist trailing ahead of them, the charm touched on stacks of books, cabinets of furled scrolls, and open chests stacked high with glittering golden galleons. Harry thought of pirate treasure, of Peter Pan. The air stank of spiced incense, distant markets, and warm metal.

Daphne gasped and instinctively reached for Harry, gripping his forearm hard enough to hurt.

A grand four-post bed took up the far wall, resplendent in fine linen and heavy with silk pillows, draped with hand-knitted throws.

A girl with long, dark hair framing a narrow, pretty face sat on the edge of that bed, a gilded tray of food and drink next to her. She wore a simple pair of pyjamas. A metal cuff around her ankle ran in a single-linked silver chain to a heavy bolt welded to the floor.

The girl watched them warily. Her eyes were the brightest blue, and to Harry she looked no older than ten.

Hoovian sighed and glanced at Daphne. The look on his face, Harry thought, could have cowed a thunderstorm.

"Here's what we came for," he said, spying an open lacquered box sitting on a table in the centre of the room. The tendrils of mist reached the box and dissipated. On a velvet cushion sat a rather unremarkable band of tarnished metal. It looked wholly unimpressive. Hoovian waved his wand over the box, whispering, and after a moment seemed satisfied. He snapped the lid closed and tucked the lockbox under his arm.

Daphne approached the young girl chained to the bed. She shrunk in on herself as Daphne approached, eyes darting seriously between the three of them.

A suspicion of who the girl might be, _what_ she might be and what Bruxo had her chained to the bed for, began to form in Harry's mind. He was suddenly afraid.

"Hello," Daphne said, softly, palms open. "Do you… do you speak English?"

"…_salam_," the girl said softly, barely a whisper.

"Daphne," Hoovian said, just as quietly.

"Let's get that chain off you," Daphne said, smiling kindly.

"Miss Greengrass," Hoovian said, a touch louder.

_You are surrounded by monsters_, _Harry_, Daphne had said, and had she known then? She had suspected.

"We're not leaving her here, Professor," Harry said.

Daphne turned from the girl. "You've got a dark look on your face, Potter."

"I was just thinking, that before today, I thought I'd seen the worst evil this world had to offer." He scratched the wispy stubble on his chin. "Turns out I'm still a little young and naïve."

"So," Hoovian said, "what are you going to do?"

Harry clenched his wand. "Oh, nothing constructive."

* * *

Three minutes later, Daphne returned to the second-floor corridor above the party squeezing the young girl's hand. The sights and sounds of the vast apartment, the thumping music, the laughter and clink of glasses, drove a spike of hate into her mind.

"This way," she said. The girl walked with a slight limp from where the ankle bracelet had bitten into her skin. "We can find our way out this way and get you home."

The girl followed her without complaint, without expression, and Daphne wanted to scream.

She held her tongue instead, ignoring the strange looks from Dragan Bruxo's guests, and made for the back staircase, which would lead them out onto the street and to Chell, who would have a portkey at the ready for extraction back to Hoovian's manor house.

Daphne turned a bend in the apartment and came to an abrupt halt.

At the end of the corridor, blocking the far stairs, Dragan Bruxo stood with a glass of fine champagne in his hands, regaling his guests with some story that had them in stitches.

The crime lord glanced her way, his eyes merry from the drink, and he blinked only once when he saw the young girl at her side.

He grinned, patted his guests on their arms, making excuses, and began to walk toward Daphne.

The girl trembled against Daphne's leg, squeezing her fancy dress in a tiny fist. Daphne watched Bruxo's mask slip. His grin didn't falter, but his gaze hardened into something ugly and entirely without empathy.

Daphne turned on her heel and dashed back the way she had come, pulling the girl along with her. _Come on, Potter_, she thought.

* * *

Harry tossed the ruby from Daphne's necklace back and forth between his hands, thinking idle thoughts about quidditch, of all things. About how _fun_ he found playing quidditch. The wind whistling in his ears, the absurdly dangerous aerial acrobatics, dodging players and bludgers alike. It was a kind of exhilarating fear that could become addictive.

In the last year, through Voldemort's return, Umbridge's reign, and losing Sirius to the mad witch Bellatrix, he hadn't felt that quidditch-high in what seemed like forever and a day. Another type of fear had taken hold, a darker, sickly fear, like wading through a river of thick molasses.

"We can apparate away right now," Hoovian said, lockbox under his arm, wand in his free hand. "You can be back at Hogwarts in ten minutes, Harry." He sounded speculative.

"Come on, Greengrass," he said.

"This was not part of the plan, of course. We're certain to ruffle some feathers, and you've already enemies enough to last a lifetime." Again, Hoovian sounded like he was talking to only himself.

The door to Bruxo's study had been left wide open as Daphne and the girl had made their escape. The plan was simple. If they could get out via the back stairs, great, and if not then to come back and Hoovian would apparate the girl out, but Harry wasn't about to leave without thanking the host for his hospitality.

"She's had enough time," Harry said. "Let's—"

Daphne and the girl dashed back into the room, nudging aside a few of Bruxo's guests and knocking a tray of champagne flutes to the ground with a crash.

"He's coming," she whispered. "He saw us—"

Dragan Bruxo, the handsome and charming crime lord, swept into his study with a grin that fell into a brutal snarl.

"Miss Greengrass," he said, "you'll forgive me—"

He caught sight of Harry and Hoovian. "Potter," he spat, "and who are you? What's that you've got there? Now see here, that's mine!" He had spied the lockbox tucked under Hoovian's arm. A high note of fear, perhaps of what Voldemort would do should his prize be stolen, entered his voice.

Bruxo reached into the pocket of his jacket, scrambling for his wand. The man was drunk, swaying on the spot, and Harry could have out-drawn him in a flash. He looked to the girl, to Daphne, and made his decision.

"_Stupefy_," he said softly, and was glad to see Bruxo hit his head on one of the obnoxious display cases on his way to the ground.

"No going back," Hoovian said. He looked at Harry. "Are you going to kill him, Mr Potter? I think you capable of it, right now."

Harry held up Daphne's demonic ruby in the light from the corridor. _Unfocused this gem will burn hotter than dragon's fire until dawn._ "I'm going to burn this place to the ground."

* * *

Daphne watched as Harry levitated the unconscious Bruxo out into the corridor, his face a grim mask, and he wasn't being careful with who or what their host bumped into during his flight.

Bruxo's guests pointed and stared.

"What are you—?"

"Put him down, young man!"

"_Kakvo!_"

"That's Dragan—"

She glanced at Hoovian, who simply raised a single eyebrow at her, and followed Harry out into the party. Moving swiftly, Harry approached the gallery overlooking the first floor and the sunken lounge, the impromptu dance floor, and the dozens of people dancing and drinking on the illicit money of the man he held under charm.

Harry levitated the crime lord out over the balcony, into the open air above the party, eliciting some chuckles, but the chuckles faded to a numb silence as the crowd recognised the man hovering above them.

Bruxo's men in the party launched to their feet, scrambled for wands, as the music thumped on.

With a casual flick of his wand, Harry broke the levitation charm and let Dragan Bruxo fall. He glanced at the young girl clutching Daphne's hand and saw a vicious smile on her face.

Bruxo smashed into a glass coffee table below, breaking the frame. Someone screamed.

Harry Potter held up Daphne's demonic ruby, which sensed his intent, and flared to life.

And Daphne considered the imp that had possessed Harry, the urge to rebel was guiding him, surely, driving his actions, and then considered... No, she knew demons. She had met and suffered demons through the years before and after her ongoing tutelage under Professor Hoovian.

The look on Harry's face, teeth bared, was not demonic. Demonic was smug, spiteful.

Harry looked nothing like a demon.

Harry looked like the boy who had slain a basilisk, who had kept an army of dementors at bay, and who had thwarted the Dark Lord Voldemort more than any _child_ had a right to do so and survive.

He looked to Daphne, for the first time, like Harry Potter. And the righteous fury on his face as he set Dragan Bruxo's arrogant and toxic party ablaze made her love him.

* * *

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Harry roared above the music, and something rushed through him, an urge to rebel, a fiery resolve. He worried on the imp that had possessed him, but he did not feel demonic, he felt _righteous_. "_RUN!_"

He hurled the ruby into the nearby bookcase and wooden cabinets. The fire took to the shelves like to dry tinder, drinking greedily from the fuel. The flames engulfed the bookcase, swept into the carpet, and began to eat into the wooden floors.

There was a stunned moment of silence and the party scattered, those that could apparate doing so, the rest racing for the balconies and the exits.

Harry turned from the swarm and smiled warmly, too warmly, at them all. "Shall we take the back stairs?"

* * *

Mathias Hoovian eased himself into his leather armchair, sipping cliché whisky in front of his cliché grand fireplace, shadows flickering across the walls of his immense study library. The grandfather clock against the wall had just chimed four in the morning. He looked not at the fire but at the scuff marks in the rug where Harry Potter had been tied to a chair about thirty hours ago.

He felt absurdly relieved that the boy was back at Hogwarts. _A boy who burnt the heart out of Dragan Bruxo_.

One of the shadows, darker than the others, stirred and Hoovian poured whisky into a second crystal tumbler set on the coffee table.

Heritage Sea, gnarled as an old oak, collected the glass and took a seat on the lounge. "The boy begins to trust you," he said, as if speaking to no one at all.

Hoovian grunted. "Your forestry bindings kept Bruxo's men down long enough for us to be about our work, Sea." He tilted his glass. "I thank you, though that work took a terrible turn. We always suspected Bruxo of… well, of such cruelty."

Sea ignored him. "You'll take more from the Potter boy than you intend, of course, trying to fix what you broke those long years ago, Mathias."

Hoovian leaned forward in his chair, knuckles white around his glass. "Is that prophecy now? From _you_? It need not always end in hellfire and doom, you old boggart."

Sea contemplated the shadows. "Forest for the trees…" he muttered. "You made more than one enemy tonight. Bruxo, the least of them. The Dark Lord will know your name before too long, taking what is rightfully his, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts won't like the new scars you gave the boy."

Hoovian knocked back his whisky and grimaced. "As you say, Harry is starting to trust me. An ally if not a friend. He's even swayed young Daphne, though she may not see it yet."

Sea twirled his fingers and the whisky bottle floated over to refill both of their glasses. "The ire of the three most powerful wizards in the world for the loyalty of a boy who thinks more on quidditch and girls than shaking the foundations of the magical world."

"And yet shake those foundations, he does." Hoovian chuckled. And raised his glass to Heritage Sea. "Cheers to that. Call it a touch of fate, a kiss of destiny, or just Hell's cruellest joke, but events spin around Harry Potter. He… attracts the chaos, Heritage. In a more civilised time we'd be able to protect him but," Hoovian stood and tossed his crystal tumbler into the fire where it shattered into a thousand glittering shards, so no lesser toast could ever be made from the glass, "these are not civilised times."

* * *

**_A/N: _**_Let's hear what you think in a review! If you like this, check out my original work - author Joe Ducie._


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